


A Very Johnlock Week Before Christmas

by Avath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avath/pseuds/Avath
Summary: It's been two years since our last go around with A Very Johnlock Halloween, but now season four is looming and we are filled with the passion only the combination of Holidays and a new season of Sherlock can inspire. GolfEchoRomeo (formerly known as something else, but she's the same. Well, kind of. She moved to California and you don't come back from California, man, it changes you), Anne and I will produce seven days of the trifecta: Fluff, Angst and Smut. Each day I will draw three prompts, one from each of the following categories: Place, Object and Christmas Movie. From those, we will write a ficlet of varied sizes and post them here.Gods Bless us in this happy time. Happy Holidays and Happy Season 4!





	1. Day One- Avath

**Author's Note:**

> Today's prompts are: Surrey. Holiday Card. Home Alone.
> 
> B-)

Mummy Holmes didn't know if she should laugh or not when she looked down at the holiday card she was supposed to send out to her family, friends and important work colleagues. She, if she could say so herself, looked lovely in her green dress with red printed flowers. Daddy Holmes looked wonderful to with his grey slacks and green vest over a white button up. You could hardly see the cut on his eyebrow. But... the children. Mycroft had a cut on hi  lip and there was no mistaking the anger behind his eyes and little Sherlock had a black eye, a puffy nose and looked defiant.. What a disastrous weekend it had been. Sometimes having children was a pure joy and sometimes she wondered what kind of little devils she had birthed.  
  
John had come to visit that weekend, as he did every other weekend when the Holmes' were away in their second home in Surrey. Mummy Holmes had told Sherlock in advance that a photographer was to come to their house on Sunday to take their picture for their annual holiday card. She felt it was best to prepare him so he didn't feel ambushed on the day. He could be such a headstrong boy. Sherlock had been suspicious, so she had promised that he and John could watch a Christmas movie and daddy would bake them something nice to go with it.  
  
In hindsight, it had been a very, very bad idea. An awful combination. Really, truly horrible.  
  
John arrived on Saturday afternoon. He ran up the pathway, holding the movie Home Alone high up in the air while shouting something at Sherlock, who was shouting something back.   
  
John tripped and fell over, and both the children started to cry. Mummy Holmes thought that the worst part of the weekend had come and gone already.  
  
But, again, in hindsight, she thought better. She was very glad to hand them both off to Mr. Holmes with the excuse of having to go to work.  
  
Mr. Holmes carried John to the kitchen table and cooed softly, tutting and sympathising with the scrape John had aquired on his knee. John wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand and tried to remember to put on a brave face and not cry, but it stung so _so_   badly when Mr. Holmes cleaned his scrape that he couldn't quite manage it. Sherlock watched anxiously. Could a scraped knee kill his very best friend John? He had read about bacteria and viruses and how they could get into the body through wounds and then people would get fevers and die. He climbed up on a chair and peered closely into John's face.  
  
"What are you doing?" John asked, going a little cross-eyed when he tried to look at Sherlock's face.  
  
"Nothing. Tthhh," Sherlock hushed.  
  
John pressed his lips together and looked cross. Sometimes he did what Sherlock said and sometimes he didn't. This time he didn't.  
  
"Tell me, _"_ he insisted.  
  
"I'm theeing if you're going to _die!"_ Sherlock said with all the drama he could muster. He slapped his hand to John's forehead to check for a fever, just like daddy did to him.  
  
"Ow!" John said, swatting away Sherlock's hand.  
  
"No! Thtay thtill!" Sherlock slapped his hand to John's forehead again. He didn't know what he was feeling for but he would work it out in the process like he always did.  
  
John tried to squirm back on the table, making it impossible for Mr. Holmes to tend to his knee.  
  
"Boys. Boys, calm down. Nobody is going to die from a scraped knee. Not in this house. Sit properly on the chair, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes said.  
  
Sherlock frowned and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest and kicked the leg of table to show how cross he was. Mr. Holmes decided it wasn't a fight he wanted to start. He carefully placed a bandaid over John's knee and nodded approvingly at his work. "Why don't you go sit on the sofa and I'll bring you some juice and gingerbread biscuits I've made," he said.  
  
It seemed to do the trick. The children sat on the sofa, drinking two juice boxes each and ate biscuits until Mr. Holmes had the good judgement to take them away so he didn't have to vomitting children later in the evening. It was also helpful to have some left over to bribe Sherlock with. He seemed to have a big sweet tooth but it was difficult to say the least to get him to eat a proper dinner. Mr. Holmes sat quietly reading a book, looking up every now and then when the children started screaming and shouting at the TV when Macaulay Culkin brought hell down on two thieves.  
  
In hindsight, Mr. Holmes knew he should have realised the foolishness of letting them watch such a movie, but he was lulled to sleep by his book with not a care in the world.  
  
When he woke up it was by Mycroft's scream and something making a racket tumbling down the staircase.  
  
\------------------------  
  
"John," Sherlock whispered. His daddy had fallen asleep and the movie had given him some ideas he wanted to try. His fingers were itching and he couldn't keep his legs still anymore.  
  
"What?" John said.  
  
"Tthh!!" Sherlock hushed. John wiped spit off his face. "Don't wake daddy. We have to trap Mikey. He'th a _thief._ "  
  
John's eyes widened. Mycroft was a big boy who went to a big boy school and John knew he was very smart. And he had a very short temper sometimes. It was dangerous. A little thrill went through him and he got goosebumps. Sherlock grinned. He knew that look on John's face. The game was on.  
  
\--------------------  
  
Mycroft was in his room, studiously bent over a book. He could hear his little brother and his friend trying to sneak around the house. It filled him with an affection that annoyed him. His brother could be such a handful, loud and cantankerous. When the knock to his bedroom door came, accompanied with Sherlock hollering his name, he felt quite tender toward his brother. Instead of shouting back that he should sod off, Mycroft put his book away and went to the door. Sherlock couldn't believe his luck - it had been a big question mark whether or not Mycroft would get up.   
  
When Mycroft opened the door he found Sherlock was standing a way down the hall, holding a plate of biscuits. John was nowhere to be seen. "Daddy made them," Sherlock said quickly before a question could be posed.  
  
"Did he?" Mycroft said. He narrowed his eyed. Sherlock _could_ be thoughtful... but he could also be a tricky liar.  
  
Sherlock nodded eagerly in reply.   
  
Mycroft relaxed and a little smile played on his lips. He moved into the hall and his foot stepped into something... soft. He looked down. A banana peel. He looked up again and Sherlock was watching him, wide eyed and breathless.  
  
"The upstairs hall is _carpeted._ The banana won't make me slip. That doesn't work. Children are so stupid," Mycroft said. He sighed, fed up with not only Sherlock but himself for letting emotion rule him.  
  
"I'm not thtupid!" Sherlock shouted. He hated being called stupid more than anything else in the whole entire world.  
  
"Yes, you are _stupid,_ " Mycroft said, carefully pronouncing the last word just to anger his brother.  
  
Sherlock started to throw biscuits at his brother, yelling wordlessly at him. John poked his head through Sherlock's bedroom door to see the fray.  
  
" _Sherlock, stop!_ " Mycroft shouted. He knew he picked the wrong word as he said it. _Stop_ seemed to mean something entirely different in Sherlock's head.  
  
Sherlock held the plate the biscuits had been on like a frisbee and threw it. He had meant to hit Mycroft in the leg. He didn't think a plate could get so much air. It hit Mycroft right on the lip. It started to bleed and Mycroft roared.  
  
Both Sherlock and John gasped. They'd be in _big_ trouble now. Sherlock ran forward, a hiccup of tears escaping his mouth. John yelled at him to _stop, Mycroft might kill him!_ and it confused Sherlock's legs and they tripped over themselves. His arms didn't catch him in time and he landed with his face right in the banana peel.  
  
John screamed, his hands to his cheeks. He started to run toward Sherlock to drag him away from Mycroft's feet but he twisted his ankle on a thrown biscuit. His arms flailed wildly and he started to fall. He was right by the stairs. Mycroft could see what was going to happen Before it did. John disappeared quite suddenly from his view. Mycroft yelled out, an unexpected presentation of apparent affection for John. He heard a thumping down the stairs and... silence.   
  
Then, footsteps belonging to his father.  
  
"Oh my God. Mycroft! Hurry!" Mr. Holmes bellowed up the stairs. His parents didn't often call him by his full, proper name and he knew John must be very badly hurt. He hopped over Sherlock's body and turned the corner to run down the stairs to assess the damage done to John by the fall.  
  
Mr. Holmes, however, wasn't crouched down over John's splayed body but was looking up in horror, pointing at John. John was hanging off the balustrade, holding on for dear life. He had lost his footing on the stairs and first tried to balance himself by grabbing on to the nice painting of a waterfall that hung at the top of the stairs, but it had come off the wall and fallen down the stairs. John had almost joined its tumbling down but had at the last moment grabbed on to the balustrade.  
  
Mycroft pulled him up. John called out on pain, his twisted ankle hurting. "Father, I believe Sherlock will start crying any mo-"  
  
Sherlock wailed.   
  
Mycroft closed his eyes. If he was with his friends at Cambridge, they would have handed him a glass of properly aged wine and treated him like the adult he felt he was. How he wished he could sit down in silence and quieted the throb in his head instead of dealing with his family.  
  
"You're bleeding, Mikey! Sherlock, what's wrong with your eye? My god, what's happened?" Mr. Holmes said, looking from John who looked shell shocked to Mycroft with his bleeding, swollen lip and then to Sherlock who appeared to not be able to open his left eye.  
  
  
Mrs. Holmes repeated the last four words when she came home an hour later. Mr. Holmes was sitting in his armchair, power eating left over biscuits that seemed to be broken in pieces. Mycroft was sitting on the far end of the sofa with a bag of ice to his lip, looking extremely cross. John was sat in the middle, a bag of ice to his ankle, quiet and a little pale. Sherlock was next to him, a bag of ice to his eye, talking and crying at the same time.  
  
"I'm not  _crying._ I'm jutht upthet that Mikey RUINED our plan!" he shouted.  
  
"Shut UP!" Mycroft shouted back.  
  
"That's it, _all of you_ SHUT UP! That _bloody_ film!" Mr. Holmes shouted, having had to listen to the same argument for the last hour. He got up and grabbed the Home Alone DVD off the table, snapped it in two and strode to the window, opening it to throw the pieces into the garden outside. Unfortunately, one piece ricocheted off the window frame and cut Mr. Holmes' eyebrow. He bellowed.  
  
Mrs. Holmes closed her eyes, turned where she stood and returned to work.


	2. Day One - GolfEchoRomeo

 

_First Year of Christmas_

  
_  
_

"No."

 

"Come on, John."

 

"No."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because I have to study."

 

"You have only one exam left!  And you know the material front to back and then to front again."

 

"I don't want to host a party."

 

"You won't be hosting.  And it isn't a party.  It's just a way for people to unwind before the holidays."

 

"Stamford..."

 

"What if I promise everyone will be out before midnight?"

 

"...Fine."

 

Mike Stamford punched the air in excitement as he raced out of their room, running down the hall to invite people over.  John Watson sighed, as he closed his textbook and brought his hand up to rub his exhausted eyes.  He had been studying all week for the end of term exams and, though he was reluctant to admit it, Mike was right. His last one was going to be an easy one.  Still, that didn't mean that he wanted to host a rager and go into the exam either hungover or with no sleep.  

 

Their other roommates had already left for the holidays, leaving the common area free to be used however they wanted.  To John, that meant spreading out his studying materials.  To Mike, it meant booze and dancing to unwind. 

 

  
_I'll make a brief appearance and then retreat back into my room to study,_  John thought as he made his way to the bathroom to shower.   _I'll look presentable and be sociable and then have the rest of the night to myself_.  With a nod to himself at the solidity of his plan, John hopped into the shower and pretended that the sound of the running water drowned out the very clear sounds of Mike Stamford throwing together a far bigger party than anticipated. 

 

\----

 

  
_This is a bloody nightmare,_  John thought as he sat on the couch in the common area, watching the debauchery unfold around him.  There were people in the room who John had never seen at university, let alone in their dormitory building.  The music was loud, the alcohol was flowing, and midnight was getting dangerously close.  John sighed, admitting defeat.  He knew Mike would be apologetic in the morning, but at that moment, John's blood was boiling.  His temper was not one to be trifled with during the examinations and this was the icing on the cake.  

 

"I'm going to my room," John mumbled to no one in particular.  "Maybe watch a movie, bash my head against the wall, who knows."  He stood up and walked into his bedroom, not bothering to close the door all the way behind him.  

 

John turned on the telly and flipped idly through the channels, skipping through all of the humdrum Christmas classics that were not helping his mood whatsoever.  He was just about to give up and shut the damn thing off when a movie from his youth appeared on the screen. Smiling in wonderment, John raised the volume on Home Alone as he watched Kevin McCallister prepare his house with traps.  

 

"Brilliant,"he whispered to himself as he leaned back in his desk chair.

 

"Yes, but it's a shame you didn't catch it until the end of the film," came a deep voice from the doorway.

 

John spun around in his chair and looked at the tall, handsome, and unfamiliar young man standing at the entrance to his bedroom. He was watching the movie intently, his eyes focusing on the action on the screen. 

 

"Who are you?" John asked, desperately trying to place the man's face, but to no avail.  John's brain was mush after the intense week of studying.  

 

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, not waiting for an invitation and moving into John's room, closing the door swiftly, but leaving it ajar just as John had done.  "Raise the volume.  I can't hear anything with that incessant prattle happening out there."

 

John continued to stare at the man who had just taken a seat on John's bed and was making himself very much at home.  

 

"I'm sorry," John stammered.  "I don't-"

 

"Recognize me?" Sherlock answered.  "I know Mike Stamford.  He invited me to this.  Seemed to think that I would get something out of this... soiree.  Not really my scene."  Sherlock's eyes finally left the movie and landed on John, who felt his entire being freeze under that intense gaze.  "I saw you leave and mention something about watching a movie in your room and naturally decided to follow since the odds of you watching a movie that interested me vastly outweighed the odds of anything happening at the party that fascinated me."

 

John blinked.  "I didn't mention anything about watching a movie," he said dumbly, at a loss as to what else he should say. 

 

"Yes you did," Sherlock said, his focus turning back to the movie.  "You mouthed it to yourself.  I can read lips.  Easy talent if you have the patience to learn it."

 

"But you didn't think that maybe I went to my room to watch the movie alone and get some quiet time?" John asked, his temper flaring up. 

 

"No," Sherlock said simply.  "Now talk less so that I can hear the movie."

 

John gaped at Sherlock.  Who was this person who was clearly younger than himself, who felt it was his place to waltz into John's room and tell him to be quiet?

 

Pulling his eyebrows together grumpily, John mumbled, "I'm John Watson by the way, if you were interested in whose night you were ruining."

 

"John Watson?" Sherlock asked. 

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Shut up so I can watch this movie."

 

John muttered under his breath as he raised the volume and continued to watch the movie, his muscles tightening from sitting uncomfortably int he chair.  He would have moved to the bed but there was a person already in it and, though it would undoubtedly be a nice release, he knew that it would turn to a fight if he kicked the stranger out of the room.  Besides, there was a strange feeling that was coming over John in the presence of this Sherlock Holmes.  For a reason he couldn't quite explain to himself, John didn't want Sherlock to leave.  There was a part of him that was even dreading the credits coming to a close, which they did all too soon. 

 

"Well," Sherlock said as the credits rolled.  "That was moderately more enjoyable than the party."  He went to leave John's bed, but the Home Alone 2 started immediately.  

 

"You can stay for the next one, if you'd like."

 

John heard the words escape his lips and partially wished he could take them back.  A nervous energy buzzed through him as he awaited Sherlock's response.  

 

There was a pause from the young man sitting on John's bed, who was looking at John with increasing curiosity, as though there was something that was puzzling, something that could not quite be figured out.  

 

"You can't watch the next one," Sherlock said.  "So why are you asking me to stay for it?"

 

John furrowed his brow.  "What do you mean?  Why can't I watch the next one?"

 

Sherlock pointed at the heavy textbook on John's desk.  "Obviously you have one last exam tomorrow and this was supposed to be time spent studying.  That's why you were so angry about the lateness of the party about the noise."

 

"How did you know I only have one left?" John asked, feeling vulnerable and exposed. 

 

"That textbook is the only one you still have.  The others are all packed away, most likely because you're done with them for the semester and won't be taking them out anymore.  Am I wrong?" Sherlock challenged. 

 

"No," John breathed, impressed and more than a little in awe.  "No, you're completely right."

 

"Of course I'm right," Sherlock said, hopping down from John's bed.  "You can't watch another movie tonight because you're already feeling the stress of this last exam, even though there's a part of you that's confident you'll do well.  Otherwise, you wouldn't have agreed to the party to begin with. Regardless, your eyes have bags under them suggesting that you haven't been sleeping well and, based on the lateness of the hour, watching another movie would be foolish.  So, like I said, you can't watch the next one so why are you asking me to stay for it?"

 

It was almost a struggle for John to keep up with the speedy pace of Sherlock's voice as he rattled all of that out.  He had no good answer as to why he was asking Sherlock to stay.  All he knew was that his lips were acting of their own accord again as he felt them move. 

 

"Would you like to get coffee tomorrow?  After my exam?"  

 

John's stomach lurched.  What was he doing? Asking someone to coffee?  Asking a _bloke_  out to coffee?  He was just about to try and walk the words back when Sherlock spoke. 

 

"I have to leave in the morning, probably while you're in your exam so I won't be able to."

 

"Right," John said, feeling walloped.  "Right, yeah.  I figured."

 

Sherlock walked towards the door.  "I... I have to go to Surrey, with my family," he explained, practically spitting the words out venomously. 

 

"You're from Surrey?" John asked, trying to keep his tone from bordering on sounding too miserable. 

 

"No," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  "My family rented a small cottage for the holidays.  Wants it to be something special.  I think it's absurd.  The last thing I want to do is be stuck there for days."

 

"Family," John said, nodding in agreement.  "Always the worst this time of year."

 

Sherlock smiled for the first time that night and John felt a swooping sensation in his lower stomach.  

 

"You just focus on that last exam of yours," Sherlock said as he opened the door.  The party in the common area and ended and John wondered when, since he had long since stopped paying attention to it. 

 

"Yeah," John said, still trying to show a brave face.

 

"I would say good luck, but I don't believe in luck," Sherlock said as he left the room and closed the door behind him. 

 

John stared at the closed door for about fifteen seconds, waiting for something to happen.  Sherlock had blown into his room and out like a hurricane and John felt like there was something different in the air around him.  

 

"I've got to get some sleep," he whispered to himself.  "I'm not thinking clearly."

 

When John returned back to his room the next afternoon, feeling confident about his exam and less confident about himself in light of his new acquaintance, there was a folded piece of computer paper, a printed image of the house from Home Alone on the front.  With a feeling of gleeful anticipation, John hurriedly opened the makeshift holiday card. 

 

"Surrey is going to be awful.  I'll ned something to look forward to in order to suffer through this unbearable holiday.  See you the first day back from break.  You bring the film, and I'll bring the coffees.  -SH"


	3. Day One - Anne

_Dear John,_

_I would like to regretfully inform you that I will not be coming to London for Christmas, as my mother insists that the holidays are a family time, and has threatened to cut me off from financial support accordingly. Please enjoy the holiday card. Merry Christmas._

_Yours, Sherlock_

 

John closes the card to look at the front again—Mrs. Holmes standing triumphantly in a red sweater, Mr. Holmes looking resigned in reindeer antlers, Mycroft lounging bitterly, Sherlock sulking something awful, all perfectly posed in that opulent house in Surrey. He almost laughs. Almost. After all, this singular shot of the Holmes’ perfectly sums up the family, the family that he sort of wishes was his own, sometimes, if he could somehow become as posh as all that of course.

 

But he can’t quite laugh because it does kind of suck that Sherlock can’t come over to his for Christmas. John is staying home alone then, stuck in university housing throughout the holiday when everyone else is home with their families. He supposes he could go home to his family too, if he wants to see Harry and his father drink themselves into darkness, wherever the hell they are. But he’s not quite sure he can stomach that. Besides, he has been looking forward to seeing Sherlock, to ordering takeaway with Sherlock and pouring him some wine and streaming Christmas movies on his laptop for the two of them to watch, and so he hasn’t made other plans. Oh, well… Some other time. For now, he’s going to pretend he’s not disappointed and bitter.

 

The dorm is already deserted, even though it’s a full five days before the main event. The kitchen is cluttered with debris: old fliers for Christmas related on-campus events, candy-bar wrappers, an abandoned sock. John retreats to his bedroom, props himself up on his bed, and pours himself a very full glass of wine. Merry Christmas.

 

_Been home for exactly a day. Dying. SH_

Should he answer? For a moment, John doesn’t want to, out of some vindictive urge to show Sherlock that his actions have been hurtful. But, of course, going to Surrey for the holiday wasn’t Sherlock’s decision. In fact, John’s pretty damn sure Sherlock would rather be spending the week with him, even if he does live in a shitty dorm room and the young genius was raised in a fancy mansion.

 

_Home alone in the dorm. Sort of feel like I should be setting booby-traps for when everyone else comes back. JW_

_Definitely should be. SH_

  
_When do you leave_ _? SH_   


_[Delayed] I told you, Sher. I’m staying here for Christmas. JW_

_That was when I was coming over. SH_

_You’re not going to go see your sister? SH_

_I’d rather stay here. JW_

 

Sherlock doesn’t respond. There. That will show him. That’s what John thinks to himself for a brief moment before he feels terribly guilty about his behavior. Christ… He’s a terrible best friend. John is very drunk by the time he slips off to sleep, and he can’t seem to stop his heart from aching. The holiday card remains on his desk, staring him down. Why was he so cruel to Sherlock? What did he do in his life to deserve spending Christmas alone? 

 

John jerks awake to the buzzing of his phone. 

 

_John, wake up. SH_

_John. SH_

_John, John, John. SH_

_There’s a car downstairs. Pack your things. SH_

_Wake up already, so I don't have to come up there. SH_

 

What? John pulls on some sweatpants and peers out his window, which conveniently has a view of the street. Sherlock clearly sees him, because the young genius opens the door of a black car and waves his arms wildly at John’s window. 

 

_Sherlock, what’s going on? JW_

_I’m taking you home for Christmas, you dolt. It would be downright irresponsible to leave you alone. SH_

 

John is suddenly more excited than he has been in a long time, his heart quite literally swelling with relief and joy and love. He can only stare for a moment, although he can see Sherlock getting impatient. 

 

_But I haven’t even had time to set my booby-traps. JW_

_Don’t bother. We can prank Mycroft once we’re back in Surrey. SH_


	4. Day Two - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Today's prompts are: Rooftop. Gift Tags. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.
> 
> The lateness is entirely my fault as I've been working nights and I'm switching back from being a vampire and fell asleep on the couch. I wasn't even lying down. I'm a marvel.

The music from the flat he shared with Mike Stamford was blaring behind John as he walked up the stairs. He was annoyed. Everyone was annoyed. Sherlock was great in many ways, but he could be beyond infuriating. And childish. And spoiled. And he always somehow ended up as John's problem.

He took a long breath to try to hide his irritation even though he knew it was no use – Sherlock would see it anyway – before he grabbed onto the ladder to the rooftop. He had been playing quite a bit of rugby and training at the gym so he took some pleasure in how easy the trip up was. His athletic body barely strained.

“There you are,” John said, spotting Sherlock at the edge of the roof. He was looking over the city, his long coat lifting gently in the wind. John was struck by the romanticism of it and knew Sherlock had probably planned it that way.  
  
“Excellent observation,” Sherlock said, not bothering to turn around.  
  
“And here are all the Christmas presents,” John said, pointing unnecessarily at the pile of gifts next to Sherlock.  
  
“I nee-” Sherlock started.  
  
“Need them for an experiment? Going to lob them and see how much the weight and type of wrapping paper effects how far they fly and fast the drop?” John said.  
  
Sherlock turned around. He was ready for an argument. He had been poised and ready for quarter of an hour, waiting for it. “Yes, I'm a sci-” he started.  
  
“Scientist? No. You're just the bloody Grinch who stole bloody Christmas. Meanwhile, our friends are down there wondering why the hell you would steal our presents. Not _who_ , mind you, but _why you would_ ,” John said.  
  
Sherlock's face soured and he turned away again. “Friends?” he said with disdain. “I do-”  
  
“You don't have friends? No, of course not. How would it look if the brilliant Sherlock Holmes decided to acknowledge the presence of other people and perhaps accept a little affection. You know, people spent their hard earned money on your gift. I know for a fact that Mike took an extra shift at the café just so he could afford his part,” John said. He was jabbing at the air with a forefinger to help make his point.  
  
Sherlock turned around again, looking at John with suspicion and anger. Gift? What was John talking about?  
  
“Yeah. I will never understand. You can be pleasant, sometimes. People respect you, even though you treat them like... Well, you know. There are people who like you,” John said, softening. He knew it wasn't easy for Sherlock to socialise, like that part of a child's education had been completely forgotten in Sherlock's case.  
  
“Gift,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yes, a gift. We got you a gift. Pooled our money together for one good one. We know you wouldn't like the most recent stupid thriller or gift card,” John said. He nodded down to the pile of gifts to invite Sherlock to look closer at them.  
  
Sherlock dove down, hurriedly looking through the gift tags to see which one was for him. John grinned. Sherlock's childishness could be charming, too. John took the opportunity to look longingly at him. London had blessed them with a clear sky and a few stars were fighting against the bright lights of the city, lighting Sherlock up. His hair looked soft. His lips looked soft. If only...  
  
“Mine,” Sherlock said. He was holding a rather small box. His lips were parted slightly, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. John had to force himself to look away before the Grinch ruined his Christmas by noticing his stupid crush and turning him down.  
  
“Yeah, that's for you. Should we go down and ope- oh, here is fine too,” John said, laughing.  
  
Sherlock was already ripping into his gift.  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said.  
  
It was not often John got to see Sherlock speechless.  
  
“Do you... like it?” John asked when the silence had dragged on too long for comfort.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said. He hadn't moved.  
  
_A digital camera for his microscope._  
  
“It'll connect to your microscope. I checked. Triple checked, in fact. We thought you'd like it to take pictures of the things you find. For you blog?” John said.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said again. He rose. “Thank you.” He ungloved his hand and offered it to John to shake.  
  
“Wasn't just me,” John said. He took Sherlock's hand and their eyes met.  
  
It was like being sucked into black hole, if black holes were warm and made things erupt in your chest. For several seconds, that seemed to drag on for years and yet were over far too fast, they held each other's hand and gaze. When it started to make John's chest ache, he let go.  
  
“Will you help me carry the rest back down?” he asked. It felt like he had been running and he needed to catch his breath.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said. If John had dared look, he would have seen the same longing he felt mirrored on Sherlock's face.  
  
They gathered the presents in silence and only spoke once they reached the hallway. “Who else was it?” Sherlock asked, continuing the conversation from before.  
  
“I'm sworn to secrecy,” John said.  
  
“Why?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Well, we didn't know how you would react. If you didn't like it... Er, people didn't want to be in the line of fire,” John said.  
  
Sherlock smiled. “Good,” he said. It wouldn't do if people suddenly thought he was friendly and tried to _chat_ with him regularly.  
  
  
  
Back at the party, the atmosphere was subdued. There was no silly dancing, no bets about the quantity a person could drink versus another, no rude Christmas jokes.  
  
“Hello,” Sherlock said, standing formally to address the attendees once the presents had been returned to under the little plastic tree John and Mike had bought second hand. The music was turned down. “I would like to thank the anonymous contributors for the gift I was presented with tonight. I... appreciate it.”  
  
“He said he liked it!” John shouted.  


“Yes, thank you, John. I liked it,” Sherlock confirmed.  
  
There was a stunned silence until a rowdy voice shouted, “I was in on it, Sherry!”  
  
“Don't call me that,” Sherlock said, but his voice was lost in the room erupting with confessions from those who had been in on it and cheers from those who hadn't.  
  


After ten minutes, Sherlock had had enough of the merriment and slipped out. Only John and Mike saw him go.  
  
“Should tell him, mate,” Mike said.  
  
“What?” John said. His jaw twitched.

  
“Oh, come on. Took me a while to catch on, but I'm not stupid. You should tell him. If anyone's got a shot, it's you. He doesn't seem to like anyone else,” Mike said.  
  
“I'm not-” John started.  
  
“Ah, don't. The arrow of Cupid works in mysterious ways,” Mike said.  
  
John made a face. “Do you think he knows?”  
  
“Nah. That's why you should tell him,” Mike said.  
  
John laughed dryly. “Yeah, sure. My New Year's resolution.”  
  
“I'm going to hold you to that.”  


 


	5. Day Two - GolfEchoRomeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golf Echo Romeo is doing a bit of a series, as she is prone to do. This is the second part, obviously.

_Second Year of Christmas_

Sherlock was pacing in his bedroom at university, his mind running faster than it had in weeks.  The end of term exams were laughable and did not require any real sort of thought.  But this.   _This_.  This was different.  It demanded all of Sherlock's attention and intellect and thinking. 

 

_How am I going to get John to agree to see me this year?_

There was no denying the fact that Sherlock had definitely screwed things up in the past year. He and John had met up when they came back from break.  They had sat on John's bed together and watched Home Alone 2, drinking the coffees that Sherlock had promised to bring. There was an energy in the air that Sherlock was drawn to.  But John had mentioned something about a girl he had met over the break towards the end of the evening and Sherlock had sulked.  Sulked and sulked until the credits began, at which point Sherlock slid of John's bed and went back to his own room, alone. 

 

It had been almost a year since that night, a year filled with Sherlock observing John from the shadows and trying not to dwell on the blonde who was always hanging all over him. There was something in John's stance whenever she was around that seemed stilted and forced, as though not completely comfortable in the situation.  Sherlock observed these things, but he did not see or understand them.  

 

John had tried to contact Sherlock during that year, of course. He was hurt, confused by Sherlock's sudden coldness after that night.  John had made this all abundantly clear one night when he had too much to drink and showed up at Sherlock's dorm, demanding to know what he had done wrong.  

 

"Nothing," Sherlock had responded coolly, trying not to focus on the constricting pain that gripped his heart.  "I thought I would enjoy spending time with you and I was wrong. I thought you were interesting at the party, but I was wrong. You're boring. Dull. Nothing to offer."

 

John had looked for a moment like he was going to punch Sherlock in the face, but what happened was far worse.  John's shoulders slumped and he mumbled to himself about Sherlock being right before he turned around and walked away.  Sherlock almost followed but the pain in his own chest kept him back.  

 

But that had been months ago and what did Sherlock have to show for it?  A lot of sleepless nights and poor decisions.  He needed to make it up to John, needed to try and explain himself.  But how? As he paced back and forth in his bedroom, a thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, an idea so brilliant that it was bound to work.  And if it did not, Sherlock literally had nothing left to lose. 

 

He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text just as he left his dorm room. 

 

"Stamford, I need a favor. -SH"

 

\---

 

"I don't understand," John said, looking up at Mike from his textbook. 

 

"It'll be fun," Mike Stamford said, trying his best to sound relaxed and believable.  

 

"The roof?" John asked, skepticism oozing into his voice.  "What could possibly be up on the roof?"

 

"Beer," Mike said.  "I don't know. I thought it would be good for you to get a change of venue.  You've been cooped up in here for days.  I know breakups are hard-"

 

"I don't care about that," John said, defensively.  "I was a shit boyfriend.  Jessica was bound to realize it eventually."

 

"Why was that?" Mike asked, unable to stop himself.  

 

"Why was what?" John asked. 

 

"Why were you a shit boyfriend?  I mean... John, I've known you for a while now.You don't like things to fail, but with Jessica... I don't know.  It seemed like you were hoping it-"

 

"I wasn't hoping it would fail," John snapped, his temper flaring. 

 

Mike seemed to realize that he was entering dangerous territory, and raised his hands in surrender.  "Okay, okay," he said in a placating tone.  "Just hear me out.  You have been holed up in here for days studying and trying to atone for whatever guilt you're feeling about Jessica.  Just... Come on up to the roof with me, just for an hour."

 

John looked at Mike for a few seconds before shrugging.  "I guess I don't really have any choice.  You'll keep pestering me until I agree."

 

Mike beamed.  "I sure will.  Grab your coat.  It's freezing out there."

 

John and Mike made their way up to the roof, but just before the door was open, Mike swore to himself.  

 

"What?" John asked. 

 

"I left my phone back in the room," Mike explained, not meeting John's eye.  "You go and I'll run back and get it. I'll meet you in a bit."

 

John did not even have time to respond before Mike had begun retreating down the stairs to the top floor.  John felt a twinge of annoyance as he pushed open the door to the roof and was face to face with the last person he wanted to see.  

 

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, a smug smile on his lips.  

 

"What the hell are you doing up here?" John asked. 

 

"I invited you here," Sherlock said simply. 

 

"No, you didn't. Mike said we were..."  John's voice trailed off as his brain began to put the pieces together.  "Mike had no intention of coming up here, did he?"

 

"No."

 

"This was you the whole time, wasn't it?"

 

"Yes."

 

"The rooftop door is probably locked so I can't leave."

 

"Correct."

 

"Why?"

 

Sherlock had not expected that question so early.  He had hoped for some more time to maneuver around the elephant in the room (or more accurately, the elephant on the rooftop), but John was wasting no time. 

 

"Why what?" Sherlock asked, hoping that perhaps John was referring to something else. 

 

"Why are you here?"  John's question had a hint of malice to it as the anger and confusion he had been feeling for the past year came to a head. 

 

"I wanted to continue the tradition we started last year," Sherlock said, gesturing behind him, but John did not look.  

 

"The tradition?"  John's eyes blazed hard as his temper boiled to the surface.  "You came into my room, uninvited, and then when we had plans to watch another movie, you left and then spent the next _year_  ignoring me and being an arse.  So explain to me, Sherlock, why on earth you think that I would want to spend a fucking _freezing_  cold night up on a rooftop with someone who thinks that I'm boring and wants nothing to do with me?"

 

John's breathing was loud in his own ears as he finished shouting and looked down at the roof beneath his feet, feeling ashamed of his outburst. 

 

"I don't think you're boring," Sherlock said softly.  

 

John's eyes snapped up and locked onto his.  "You said that to me.  You told me I was boring and that's why you left my room that night. You-"

 

"I was rejected," Sherlock said, despising the pain in his chest for making him feel so human. 

 

"Rejected?" John asked in confusion.  "Who rejected you?"

 

"You did," Sherlock responded bitterly.  

 

"I didn't... What are you?  No, you've got the... How could... I didn't..." John fumbled with the words, trying to deny that he had rejected Sherlock, when a part of him recognized the validity of the statement.  

 

"You did," Sherlock said.  "I recognized all of the signs and put myself out there and thought that I had made it clear that watching Home Alone 2 together would be considered a date but you have a girlfriend now and I-"

 

"I don't have a girlfriend," John whispered.  

 

"Please," Sherlock scoffed. "I spent the past year watching you both and-"

 

"We broke up last week," John said and for some reason, he licked his lips. 

 

"Oh," Sherlock said, being brought up short.  "I... I didn't know that."

 

"Yeah, well... I'm a shit boyfriend," John said.  "I'm not gay, though."

 

"I didn't say you were," Sherlock said. 

 

"You said you thought it was a date and that you read all the signs," John said, confused, trying to make sense of what Sherlock was saying. 

 

"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently.  He always hated when people were too slow on the uptake, especially about things that he found to be so obvious.  "The signs that you were attracted to me."

 

"Are you gay?" John asked, quickly.  "Which would be fine by the way..."

 

"I know it's fine," Sherlock responded stiffly. 

 

"Right.  Well..."  John stood with his back straight.  "I don't know what you're expecting from me, Sherlock..."

 

"A chance."

 

Sherlock began to walk away from John and it was only then that John saw what Sherlock had been gesturing to before.  There was one folding chair with Sherlock's laptop sitting on it, and two other folding chairs facing that.  John saw that there was also a blanket folded on top of a chair.  

 

"I was promised beer," John said, walking towards the chairs with Sherlock. 

 

"There's beer for you and wine for me," Sherlock said. "And...a movie."

 

"A movie?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

 

"Yes," Sherlock said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.  "I even... Well, here you go."

 

Sherlock reached down to his bag that was next to a chair and pulled out a wrapped present and handed it to John.  

 


	6. Day Two - Anne

Sherlock Holmes was a very smart and distinguished bloke, educated at Eton and then Cambridge, trained to fence and box and ski by the finest coaches. He was always coifed, his clothes perfectly tailored and his hair perfectly mussed. He was _dignified_.

And at the moment, he was stranded on John’s rooftop as the snow came down, fumbling for the chimney in black skinny jeans and a ski mask. The ladder rested in the snow.

This situation was his own fault of course, but he wasn’t the sort of person to recall a gift that he had gotten someone and he wasn’t the type to give up. And so… Sherlock would replace the old gift with the new one—a nice, safe pair of thick socks—wrapped in identical paper and shoved up his jacket. His first gift was completely inappropriate, entirely unsuitable, and now, in the eleventh hour, it was up to him to rectify the situation.

Sherlock gripped the stone fireplace as his footing slipped. Shit, this was a lot harder than he had thought it would be. He put one foot in, making up his mind with some conviction. Yes, he would fetch the incorrect gift from John and leave a better one. But… Could a human being even enter a house through the fireplace? The young genius peered down through the opening and finally decided that entering in that way was a terrible idea, something that he was only even considering because of his penchant for romantic fantasy…

Entering through a window was probably better. Okay… He knew that John’s was nearby. Sherlock slowly lowered himself down until he was sitting (in the cold, wet snow, of course), and let his legs dangle over the edge. Sherlock shivered. This was fucking miserable. He leaned over the edge and tried to find the window… But his arse slipped a few centimeters closer to the edge and he scrambled away for fear of losing his life.

Sherlock switched to his belly, waving his hands around in the air to locate John's window. AH! His heart jumped when he touched glass. Perfect. He scooted himself forward and fiddled with the latch on the window desperately, his fingers slowly growing numb. Locked. Of course it was fucking locked. Sherlock groaned. He was going to be stuck up here forever. He tried again, pulling and pushing at the latch in vain.

And then the window opened.

Oh, fuck… Sherlock brought his whole body back up onto the roof so that no one could see him.

“Hello?” Sherlock peered over the edge of the roof carefully and glimpsed the top of John’s head, looking back and forth in confusion. Sherlock held his breath. John’s head disappeared. The window shut. Fortunately, John didn’t lock it. Okay, here was Sherlock's chance. After approximately about ten minutes (hopefully enough time for John to return to sleep), he pulled at the window again, finally working it open. He held his breath some more as he shimmied his legs inside, and then, in a leap of faith, he released the roof and called upon the forces of gravity to get himself into the room. There was a moment of intense fear, when Sherlock’s slim body wobbled on the edge of the window frame, and then—

Sherlock was in John’s dark room.

He took a step, testing out the ground. And then another. There was no clichéd creaking, but… John shot out of bed.

“Sherlock?” his sleepy voice asked after a moment of recognition. Sherlock didn’t respond. “Sherlock, I can _see_ you. What the hell are you doing here?” John turned on his bedside table lamp, blinking endearingly as his eyes adjusted.

“I… I got you a present.”

“You already gave me a present. Sher, you’re wet and shaking…” John hurried over to Sherlock with a blanket and ushered him onto the bed. “Did you come in from the roof?” he asked after a moment of trying to rub Sherlock dry.

“ _No._ Maybe…”

“Christ, you loon… So what is this really about?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock pulled the present out from under his jacket. “Here you go… I’m going to need to repossess the other present. I’ve accidentally given you the wrong present. A gift-tag mix-up. Where is it?”

“Sherlock, you’re stealing my present? Are the Grinch?”

“ _John._ "

“I’ve already opened it.”

“What…?”

“I’ve already opened the other present. And I really hope you didn’t mix up the gift-tags. That would be a bit awkward for me.”

“But it’s not Christmas, John. It’s only the _nineteenth_ of December.”

“Yeah, well, I opened it. Are you still going to take it back? Because I sorta liked it.”

“Yes?” John helped Sherlock out of his soaked jacket and button-up and then went through his drawers in search of a t-shirt and some sweatpants.

“Yeah… Here, change into these.” Sherlock reluctantly accepted the new clothes and finished changing. He was still shaking, even though he wasn’t wet anymore, and so John worked him under the covers and held him close. “I’ve always wanted to take a trip to Paris. I mean… it's sort of a big gift, but… I’m assuming you don’t want the tickets back for money reasons."

“No, not really.”

“What happened, Sher?”

“It’s not necessarily a romantic gift. Friends go to Paris.”

“I didn’t say it was a romantic gift.” John pressed his face into the back of Sherlock’s neck. He could feel his best friend relaxing. It was the bloody middle of the night, after all, and John assumed Sherlock had suffered some sort of traumatic experience on the roof.

“ _Lestrade_ said it was a romantic gift.”

“Well, fuck Lestrade.” Sherlock could feel his eyes starting to close… He was exhausted, and John was holding him, holding him so tightly, and Sherlock loved when John held him. John stroked Sherlock’s hair and ran his fingertips over Sherlock’s cheek. He adored this man… This _insane_ man who he hadn’t expected to see until after the holidays, this man who had just appeared at his house in the middle of the night, trying to pull off a grand heist like the Grinch. He pressed a tender kiss into Sherlock’s hair. “Although, this present is also pretty good.”

“The socks?”  
  


“Yeah, Sherlock. The socks…”

 


	7. Day Three - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Today's prompts are: Living room. Dice. Trading Places.
> 
> I have written smut. I have not done so in... well. I giggled when I wrote "bottom", that's how long.

John leaned back on a hay bale. He was grateful for the extra money he made when holiday work was available on the Holmes estate but it wasn't in any way glamorous. He'd spent the day making the horses stables as clean as they could be. The family would be arriving the following day and everything would have to be to the usual standards, no matter what the cost.

 _What's it like to be from money like that?_ John wondered. He closed his eyes. He could trade places with Sherlock, the family's youngest son, and ride the horses instead of cleaning up after them. He'd like that. He'd like to be more like the mysterious, dark and haughty Sherlock. _You really have to be from money to get away with acting like he does_ , he thought. It seemed like Sherlock was free – John had to go around being polite and it was such a strain sometimes. Sherlock just ignored the social expectations and it didn't seem to have any consequences.  
  
John imagined he would get up in the morning and ring the bell down to the kitchen for his breakfast to be brought up. Whatever he wanted. Maybe he fancied caviar. Maybe brand cereal. _I bet they get packages with two toys in so Sherlock never has to share with his brother,_ John thought with a grin.  
  
Mycroft seemed to be the downside of being Sherlock. He had seen them get into shouting matches and Mycroft could be terribly cruel. But in fairness, so could Sherlock. Their parents didn't seem to be present much, which seemed a blessing to John.  
  
After breakfast of brand cereal he'd get dressed. No manure stained overalls but a nice suit. Sherlock always had nice suits, cut perfectly for his body. John lingered on that thought. Sherlock in a tight suit.... and then Sherlock in overalls.  
  
_I could order him to do anything_ , John thought. He felt a twinge somewhere below his stomach and opened his eyes in guilt. Nobody else was there and his bad conscience eased.  
  
  
  
He imagined himself in a bespoke suit waiting in the grand living room of the estate. Sherlock would enter in overalls, defiant even though he was in an inferior position. John would welcome him in and gesture at the sofa and Sherlock would sit down.  
  
“Sir?” Sherlock would say, having seen the dice on the table in front of him.  
  
  
John shivered from pleasure where he lay against the hay bale. His hand was rubbing his lower stomach, inching down toward his hip.  
  
  
“Sir?” Sherlock repeated in his mind.  
  
“Every even number, you get a favour from me. Every odd number, I get something from you,” John said.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said.  
  
“No?”  
  
“Every even number, _you_ get a favour from me. Every odd number _I_ get one from you,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Didn't realise you were in a position to make rules, Sherlock, but I'll accept it,” John said.  
  
“Thank you, _sir,_ ” Sherlock said.  
  
  
  
John opened his eyes and looked around. It was too late in the day for many people to be around, and he was well hidden. He slipped his overalls down his hips.  
  
_Sir, sir, sir,_ he repeated in his head in Sherlock's velvet voice. His hand slipped down his overalls and he started to stroke his cock.  
  
  
  
“Roll it,” John said.  
  
Sherlock picked up the dice and let it fall. It was a three.  
  
“Well?” John said quickly, too eager even his fantasies.  
  
“Kiss me,” Sherlock said, a tinge of pink appearing on his cheeks.  
  
John straddled Sherlock on the sofa. It wasn't all bad being shorter than him. He leaned in slowly. Sherlock looked impatient and tried to hurry John up with a hand on his back, but John was in control. The first touch of their lips was not as hungry as John had imagined before. Their lips barely touched, just sliding over each other. John moved back just a fraction and kept his eyes closed so he could feel the magnetic pull back in.  
  
The next kiss was similar. Barely there but this time it was longer. Their lips sliding across each other until it was far too much to bear and it had to deepen. Their tongues touched and John's hips started to move down against Sherlock's in time. They were both breathless, small noises of pleasure emanating from the back of their throats.  
  
John only moved back when Sherlock started to rub his cock through his trousers. “Not part of kissing,” he whispered.  
  
Sherlock looked up at him with a dazed expression. “Neither was you humping me,” he said.  
  
“Roll the dice again instead of being insolent,” John said. He sat back on the sofa and watched.  
  
Sherlock rolled. A five.  
  
“You're to let me touch you, sir” Sherlock said. “Without clothes on,” he added.  
  
John undid his belt and undid the button of his trousers. Sherlock slapped his hands away and took over. All John had to do was to lift his hips up so Sherlock could pull his trousers down.  
  
“You're so big, sir,” Sherlock said softly. His fingertips were already on John's cock, trailing up and down the length of it.  
  
  
  
John let out a puff of air and opened his eyes. He was so predictable wanting to have his cock commented on as big but... He replayed that moment again.  
  
  
  
“You're so big, sir,” Sherlock said softly.  
  
John watched closely as the long, slender fingers wrapped around him and started to rub him. At first the touch was as soft as Sherlock's voice but soon John's excitement had Sherlock's hand moving quickly and with a tight grip. It seemed to be getting Sherlock off as much as John, because the low moans he had heard when they'd been kissing had come back.  
  
“I've wanted to do this since I first saw you. I could tell by the way you walked how big you are. I knew you'd fit nicely into my hands... but I like a challenge, sir,” Sherlock whispered.  
  
“Oh?” was all John could manage.  
  
“I don't know if you could fit all the way in my mouth,” Sherlock said before descending quickly to take John into his mouth.  
  
John's hips jerked up and he kept the motion up, rolling his hips so he was gently fucking Sherlock's mouth.  
  
“The rules,” he said just when Sherlock had relaxed into a rhythm. He pulled Sherlock back by a handful of hair.  
  
“Sir,” Sherlock whined. He pouted, his lips wetter and pinker than before. John had to touch himself at the sight of it.  
  
“Roll,” he said.  
  
Sherlock rolled. A two.  
  
“Let me suck you, sir,” Sherlock said.  
  
“No. I want you naked. Take your clothes off. All of it,” John said, and suddenly Sherlock was naked. John stroked himself as he took in every line of the body he had been lustily staring at since their first meeting. Sherlock was thin and lithe but muscular from horseback riding. “Turn around,” John said. Sherlock did as he was told.  
  
If the front of Sherlock's body was made of lines, the back of it was all curve. Sherlock's bottom was round and soft looking. John had thought a lot about this bottom. “Bend over,” John said.  
  
“Sir?” Sherlock said. John loved the shy tone of his voice.  
  
“You heard me perfectly well. Bend over,” John said.  
  
Sherlock bent over, leaning his hands on the table. The cheeks parted a little and John leaned forward. He slipped his hand between Sherlock's thighs and cupped his balls.  
  
“You're breaking the rules,” Sherlock breathed.  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock,” John whispered. His breath touched Sherlock's skin. John bent and licked the crease where arse met thigh and continued up to the hole.

 

  
John opened his eyes, full of guilt again. _I'm masturbating in a barn thinking of my employer's son_ , he thought, but he had passed the point of no return. Maybe he ought to speed it up. He closed his eyes again.  
  
  
  
  
“Roll the dice,” John said. He had leaned back in the sofa and stroked himself as he watched Sherlock's naked figure move.  
  
Sherlock rolled. Six.  
  
“Suck me off, Sherlock,” John breathed. He spread his legs so Sherlock could fit between them.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said. He was quickly positioned on the floor and bent over John's lap. John's hips started to roll the moment Sherlock's mouth was around him and he leaned his head back.  
  
“I think you can manage deeper,” John said. He weaved his fingers through Sherlock's curls and pushed Sherlock's head down.  
  
There was a surprised, muffled moan as Sherlock adjusted to having far more cock in his mouth than he'd anticipated.  
  
  
  
  
“Having fun, John?”  
  
John's eyes snapped open. Stood in front of him was Sherlock. The real Sherlock.  
  
“I-” John started but there was nothing he could say. He was going to be fired. For a start. Then he'd be arrested and everyone would know he had been masturbating in a barn.  
  
“You what, John?” Sherlock said. There was nothing in his expression that John could read.  
  
“I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me,” John said. The only consolation was that Sherlock couldn't possibly know he had been thinking about him.  
  
“I believe the thought of me sucking you off, John, came over you,” Sherlock said.  
  
John's stomach dropped and he wished his cock would do the same. Seeing Sherlock in person and hearing him say those words apparently weighed heavier than being more humiliated than he'd ever been.  
  
Sherlock stepped forward. “You talk to yourself when you masturbate. Did you know?” he said. “The thought has entered my head, too. On occasion.”  
  
“W-what?” John said. Was he still imagining things? Or was Sherlock moving toward him and getting down on his knees in front of John?  
  
“On occasion, I have thought of doing this,” Sherlock said. He pushed John's knees apart. He took a hold of John's cock. John could say nothing. He could only stare in disbelief at the very real slender fingers now working their way over his cock.  
  
“I've thought about a lot of things, John. I cannot deny I'm... glad you have to,” Sherlock continued.  
  
“I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow,” John said. He cringed. Why of all things would he choose to say that?

“Is that an important detail?” Sherlock said with a smirk.  
  
John shook his head.  
  
“Thought not,” Sherlock said. He licked his lips and John let out a moan in anticipation. Sherlock lowered his head and licked his way up from John's balls to the tip of his cock.  
  
“Oh, Jesus,” John said breathlessly.

Sherlock hummed. He glanced up at John and then descended over his cock.  
  
Being sucked off by Sherlock in real life was nothing like John had imagined. Sherlock's lips were much softer and his mouth much wetter. It was bringing him to an embarrassingly quick finish.  
  
Suddenly the warmth around him disappeared. “Do you like it?” Sherlock asked. His lips and chin were shiny with saliva.  
  
“What?” John asked incredulously. “I'm about to come in your mouth. Of course I bloody like it. Why wouldn't I like it?”  
  
“You're very quiet.”  
  
“I'm just trying to... not come too soon,” John admitted.  
  
“Don't.”  
  
John's cock was enveloped by warm wetness again and he grabbed at the ground. Sherlock noticed and moved his hands to his hair. John tugged. Sherlock moaned.  
  
“Fuck,” John said loudly. Sherlock's moan had reverberated down to his balls and they tightened. “I'm going to-”  
  
Sherlock moaned again and looked up, locking eyes with John. He wanted to see what John looked like when he was brought over the edge by him.  
  
John's hips started to jerk uncontrollably and he pushed Sherlock's head closer to him. He came with a final jerk and Sherlock drank him up. Sherlock only let John's cock slip out of his mouth when it had softened completely.  
  
John didn't know what to say. _Thank you_ seemed ridiculous, as did any comment on Sherlock's performance. “That was... unreal,” he said finally.  
  
“No, John. It was very real. Please don't fantasise about me any more. Masturbation is pleasurable but not as pleasurable as sex with someone else. It's better if we meet here again. Tomorrow,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yes, sir,” John said.

 


	8. Day Three - GolfEchoRomeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G.E.R is doing a series as she does. This is part three!

_Third Year of Christmas_

"I'm sorry," John said, looking at Sherlock hard in the eye.  "You think it would be a good idea to  _what?"_  


  
_"_ Trade places!" Sherlock said animatedly.  John had seen this look in Sherlock's eye enough during the past year to know that this was something that was going to be very hard to extricate himself from.  

 

"We should never have watched that movie, tonight," John said as he rolled his eyes.  "I may never live this down.  I should never have even suggested it."

 

"Don't you see how perfect this is?" Sherlock asked as he began to pace back and forth in the living room of John and Mike's flat.  "I can go into your job and work your shifts and you can go to Surrey for the holidays and deal with my family!"

 

"I would laugh at how ridiculous this idea is, but I know you're being completely serious, and that scares me," John said, stretching out on the couch.  "Sherlock, how do you expect this to work?"

 

"I've thought it all out," Sherlock said in a very analytical voice.  "You'll call in sick for work and explain to them that you don't want to leave them understaffed so you found someone to take your shifts for you."

 

John snorted.  "Sherlock, do you even know the first thing about making custom coffee for people?"

 

"It shouldn't be that hard," Sherlock said. "You learned how to do it."

 

"Thanks," John mumbled, knowing that Sherlock did not mean offense.  This was just how his best friend was.  Curt and to the point, with no filter or any sense of social propriety. 

 

"I'm sure you could teach me the basics in, what? Twenty minutes?" Sherlock asked, his tone one of relative ease.

 

"I went through a two week training period, but sure," John said sarcastically.  "Why not?  It would only take Sherlock Holmes twenty minutes to learn 80 hours worth of work?"

 

"If that," Sherlock said, pompously. 

 

John couldn't help but snort at that.  "Okay, Sherlock," he said.  "Whatever you say.  Still doesn't change the fact that your plan is never going to work and I'm never going to agree with it."

 

"I just explained why it would work," Sherlock said, his lower lip pouting in a way that John couldn't look at directly. 

 

"No," John said, being sure to keep his focus on Sherlock's eyes and not those full lips.  "You explained why it _might_  work if you were to take my place.  You know as well as I do that me taking the place at your family's Christmas in Surrey is never going to work."

 

"It would," Sherlock said.  "I've thought it all through.  We just wouldn't tell my family that I could not attend until the last possible minute."

 

"When is the last possible minute?" John asked, suspiciously. 

 

"When you arrive and tell them yourself," Sherlock said simply as he went back to pacing. 

 

A laugh from upstairs was heard down in the living room and John knew that Mike had been eavesdropping on their conversation but this was the straw that broke the laughing camel's back.  

 

"Shut it, Stamford!" John bellowed.  He sat up on the couch and closed his eyes.  Bringing his fingers up to rub against his temples, he quietly asked, "Sherlock, how do you think your family will react when a stranger shows up at their doorstep and tells them that their son isn't coming home for Christmas but is taking his place instead?"

 

"Don't you see!" Sherlock said with a crazed smile on his face.  "It's perfect!  My parents care so much about manners that they will welcome you into the house with open arms!"

 

"But you hate being there!" John objected, his eyes still closed.  "Convince me that I won't also hate being there."

 

Sherlock stopped pacing and just looked at John for a few moments.  "That I can't do," he said.  "You're bound to have an awful time."

 

"Sherlock," John growled, pressing his eyelids shut even tighter. 

 

"But think of it this way!" Sherlock countered.  "Since we can't spend Christmas together because you're working, this is the best alternative!"

 

"It really isn't," John groaned. "This isn't even close to the best alternative."

 

Sherlock frowned.  "What do you propose, then? I've given you my idea.  What's yours?"

 

Finally opening his eyes, John looked at Sherlock and shrugged.  "Keeping things the way they are?"

 

"Unacceptable alternative to my plan," Sherlock said briskly.  "Meet me in the kitchen and teach me how to make coffee.  I'm taking your shifts and you're going to Surrey."

 

John felt like the situation was slipping out of his grasp and if he didn't play this correctly, he would end up in a cottage in Surrey with his best friend's family while Sherlock was miles away. This was not how he wanted to meet the Holmes family.  

 

  
_We're not even dating,_  a voice in John's head said.  That wasn't to say that John didn't want to be dating Sherlock.  Things had gone very slowly over the past year, but the most they had ever done was flirtatiously text.  John wasn't sure exactly what he wanted and as long as he wasn't attached to anyone else, Sherlock seemed content.  In fact, John had been looking forward to the days away from Sherlock at Christmas to try and get a handle on the emotions he was feeling.  Being someone's boyfriend again felt like a bigger deal to him now since Sherlock would also be his.  The last thing John wanted was to meet Sherlock's family before anything really happened between the two of them. 

 

An idea struck John as he followed Sherlock into the kitchen.  If reasoning and logic wouldn't appeal to Sherlock to change his mind, then maybe John could force it by leaving it up to chance.  It was his only chance as he watched Sherlock take out the coffee beans and the grinder from the cabinet. 

 

"Sherlock, I have an idea," John said.  "You know that my answer to trading places is going to be no. However you ask, whatever sly way you try and phrase this, I will not agree to it."

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he looked at John.  "Go on," he said suspiciously.  

 

"Instead of this going back and forth all day, why don't we leave it up to chance?"

 

"You know I don't like games of chance, John," Sherlock said.  "It's too hard to account for random acts."

 

"What if it's something you know the probability for?" John asked. 

 

"Like what?"

 

"Dice?" John suggested, smiling. 

 

"Explain," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing even more. 

 

"I'll go grab two from Mike and we'll roll them. You roll higher than I do, then we go along with your plan.  But if I roll higher than you do, then we just leave the plans the way they are and we don't trade places." John grinned. 

 

"What if there's a tie?" Sherlock asked.  "What happens then?"

 

"Then... I don't know." John said.  "We roll again and don't count it."

 

Sherlock was silent for a good thirty seconds and John could see his eyes trying to calculate his chances of winning the dice roll against his chances of convincing John to go along with his plan.  

 

"Fine," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "Go get the dice."

 

\----

 

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes called out from the kitchen. 

 

Pretending he hadn't heard his mother call, Sherlock sank deeper into the armchair in the living room of the cottage house in Surrey on Christmas Eve.  He had been in a sour and surly mood since he had left John's flat five days earlier having rolled a three to John's eleven. Why had he agreed to a dice roll? 

 

"Sherlock Holmes, you come in here this moment!" his mother called again.  "You have a phone call!"

 

 "Who's calling me?" he mumbled to himself, not making any effort to get out of the armchair.  John had texted him a lot during the past five days and Sherlock ignored all of them.  On some level, Sherlock knew that if he wanted to be with John on any sort of level, this going off the grid and not returning texts would not fly.  But at the moment, he was too sullen to care about that. 

 

"Sherlock Holmes, there is a perfectly lovely young man on the phone for you and you're making me feel like a prized fool by not connecting him to you!"

 

Sherlock sat up in his chair.  "Who's on the phone?" he asked, his tone one of the utmost urgency. 

 

"It's a young man named John," his mother said from the doorway.  "Seems very keen to get in touch with you."

 

Sherlock ran into the kitchen and grabbed the phone away from his mother.  He hated how old this cottage was with its cord phone.  It made it so that he had no privacy during a phone call with someone who his mother would ask fifty questions about as soon as the call was over."

 

"John?"

 

"Sherlock."  John's voice was one of relief, frustration, and camaraderie.  To Sherlock, it was the tone that was John himself. 

 

"Has anything happened? Why are you calling me here?" 

 

"You wouldn't answer my texts," John said defiantly.  "I got your phone number from Mike who has a friend in the bursar's office and looked it up. You're not the only one who can do sneaky detective work when you want to."

 

"Clever," Sherlock said.  "But why are you calling me?"

 

"Because I..."  John trailed off and Sherlock could hear him taking steadying breaths on the other end. "Because it's Christmas Eve and I miss you," John said quickly. 

 

"Oh."

 

"Is that a problem?"

 

"No," Sherlock said.  "I... reciprocate the feeling."

 

"What?"

 

"What you just said... I concur."  Sherlock knew that his entire family was listening in from the living room and his face was turning the color of a beet. 

 

"You miss me too?" John asked, his voice full of hope.  

 

"Yes."

 

"Why are you talking so... Oh," John said in dawning comprehension.  "Your family is right there, aren't they?"

 

"Correct."

 

John's laugh on the other end of the phone was the most full of life Sherlock had felt in almost a week and he struggled not to join in.  It was a contagious sound and Sherlock wanted to be a part of it. 

 

"Do you want to get dinner when you're back?" John asked, breathless from laughing. 

 

"Yes," Sherlock said fervently into the receiver.  

 

"Yeah?" John asked, the laughter gone from his voice and replaced by the same fervent tone Sherlock had just used.  

 

"Yes. That sounds perfect to me."

 

"Good. Right. Well...It's a...date."

 

"Yes. Yes, it is."

 

"Right, well...." Sherlock could hear the smile in John's voice through the phone and he couldn't help himself; he smiled too. 

 

"I'll see you then," Sherlock said.  

 

"See you then, Sherlock.  Happy Christmas."

 

"You too, John."

 

"Right.... Okay.... Bye, Sherlock."

 

"Bye, John," Sherlock said, waiting to hear the click of the call ending on John's end before he hung up. 

 

"Bye," he heard John whisper one last time before the line went dead. 

 

Sherlock slowly hung up the phone and took a calming breath.  His family would have many questions, most of which he wouldn't answer, but what he could tell them was this: Sherlock Holmes was going to be going to dinner with John Watson. And whatever happened from there would be between him and John. 


	9. Day Three - Anne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a bit late with the updating! I drove nine hours in shitty weather to get home for Christmas.

“We’re trading places.” 

 

“No, we’re not.” 

 

“ _John._ ” John fiddled with his keychain, some miniature dice in a little glass orb.

 

“I… I can’t—“ 

 

“You can.” 

 

Sherlock shoved his credit card across the cheap linoleum table. He had never seen another human being eat so much cheap food at a single sitting, which meant that John wasn’t eating properly or often enough, and John’s jacket was thin and falling apart like something from a Nikolai Gogol story, which meant that although he wouldn’t say anything directly, it was the perfect time for him to enact his Trading Places scheme. 

 

“Roleplaying is fun,” Sherlock insisted. John was embarrassed and irritated at the same time, and Sherlock was momentarily worried that the other bloke was going to get really mad at him for being “insensitive," but something within John’s expression told him that it was okay to keep pushing. 

 

“I’m not actually going to pretend to be you, you know. You’re just proposing this nonsense so you can buy me things…” 

 

“I want you to buy _yourself_ things. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can quite replicate your… aesthetic.” 

 

“Are you insulting me?” 

 

“You’re coming home with me. Do you really want to be dressed like that? Now… Role the dice. Two through six we don’t go through with it; seven through twelve…” Sherlock shrugged.

 

John let out a long huff of air. 

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, this is _wrong._ ” Sherlock shrugged again. He loved it when John used his full name, and he could tell that the other man was giving in. Besides, the dice back him up with a solid nine.

 

“But John, doesn’t that make it more fun?” 

 

Sherlock Holmes, who wasn’t known for his propriety, quickly pulled off his shirt in the middle of the restaurant and tossed it to John. The people at the table across from them stared, but John was used to that at this point. “Go on, change. You have to be Sherlock Holmes for the next—” Sherlock looked at his phone to check the time. “For the next ninety minutes, and I do _not_ dress like _that_.” 

 

 And that was when John officially gave in. Sherlock was _shirtless—_ how could he possibly resist? 

 

He pulled off his jumper and handed it to Sherlock, who promptly pulled it on. God… Sherlock in his clothes? Sherlock, not quite filling out the wool, tugging at his sleeve to adjust the shirt. This was officially the best day of John's life. Sherlock’s shirt didn’t quite fit him—it was much too slim—but it felt okay if he kept it unbuttoned over his undershirt. 

 

Trading places. Fine. He could do that. It was at least nice to spend the day with his best friend. 

 

“Where first?”

 

\---

 

Sherlock and John spent the day shopping, and Sherlock (naturally) convinced/coerced John into buying shirt after shirt and trouser after trouser and a new jacket and new socks and boxers. John wanted to die at first, but he actually started to get into Sherlock’s little game, finally pointing at some of the most expensive items in the store while doing his best impression of Sherlock’s pout. Sherlock was positively elated, spinning around in the stores and plucking clothes from the displays and throwing them into John’s arms. He was nearly high with excitement, face flushed, smile stretching from ear to ear. 

 

In a rush, Sherlock dragged John into a few of the high end stores and bought him a suit and three button-ups and some proper trousers, and then… He saw the leather jacket. 

 

“Sherlock, I really don’t need that.” Sherlock pulled the jacket off the rack and circled around John flirtatiously, brushing the leather up against his skin. The jacket was well over 1000 quid, but Sherlock made _sure_ that John didn’t see that as he slipped it over those broad shoulders. Oh, wow… Yes, that was very nice. Sherlock brought a hand to John’s chest and shoved him into the dressing room, right up against the mirror. He tugged at John’s hair roughly, passionately, pushed open his own shirt (because for some reason John refused to relinquish his Sherlock shirt), and locked his lips to John’s neck and  sucked. Hard. 

 

John gasped, shocked for a split second of horror and then—he grabbed back, shamelessly, pressing greedy hands up his own jumper and against Sherlock’s body. _Mine, mine, mine…_ He hastily unbuckled his belt and Sherlock pulled his trousers to the floor, quickly pulling John’s cock into his mouth and taking it right down his throat. Again and again and again. 

 

“Sherlock… _Sherlock_ , I’m not going to—not long…” 

 

Sherlock immediately pulled away. 

 

“No, you’re not allowed to. Not yet.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“You’re not allowed to cum. I want you to fuck me in the living room.” John, who was more turned on than he had ever been in his entire life, couldn’t stop himself from erupting into giggles. 

 

“The living room? Sherlock, people don’t have sex in the living room.” 

 

“Problem?” It was John’s turn to shrug. 

 

“No… No problem as long as you keep kissing me.” 


	10. Day Four -Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompts are: Crowded Restaurant, Reindeer Antlers and Love, Actually.

Mike Stamford had gotten married. Among the invitees were people from the hospital he worked, including Sherlock, John and Molly. The church affair had been with only their families present but they had sprung for dinner catered in a nice restaurant in Covent Garden. The happy couple had decided to embrace the season and had specified the dress code as “festive”. Sherlock was wearing the same thing he always did. Suit, good shoes and his coat.  
  
The trip there itself had been an event – Sherlock had jostled with happy tourists and annoyed Londoners on the tube and then on the walk the walk from Leicester Square station. Sherlock could not believe the asinine choice of going to this part of the city willingly on a Saturday evening for dinner. Especially at Christmas time when every company every foundation, association, institute, organisation, society, alliance, or any other group to have been thought up into existence was having their holiday soiree to congratulate each other in a wank circle that, frankly, left him speechless.   
  
And yet, he had agreed to show up to this one. He didn't ask himself why simply because he didn't want to acknowledge the answer.

 

It was worse than he thought. The restaurant was so full Sherlock was sure fire safety rules were being broken. Businessmen had unbuttoned their shirts and pulled their ties loose in the pretence that they could be casual and relaxed in the company of their colleagues.   
  
Molly was wearing a jumper with Rudolph the reindeer. It had a light up nose that flashed bright red every two seconds. She had accessorized with matching reindeer antlers. It was awful. He congratulated her on wearing lipstick, however. She always looked nicer with lipstick.   
  
“Sherlock!” she said. She was surprised that he had actually shown up. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to a seat.  
  
Sherlock almost made a rude remark about not needing to be told to sit down when there was a handwritten place card with his name on it. He could read just fine. Instead, he nodded with a tight lipped imitation of a smile.   
  
Molly looked flustered and blushed. Sherlock, busy taking his seat, didn't notice it. She hadn't expected him to. She almost never did, especially when John was around. She knew Sherlock thought her a bit silly and thought that she didn't perceive anything, but she was wrong. It hadn't taken her long after Sherlock had met John to see what was happening. Her only comfort in watching the man she had longed for fall in love with someone else was that he didn't seem to notice it himself, so she had a one up on him. It was a small comfort.  
  
Figuring out John had taken a bit longer. He seemed so... straight to those who didn't pay any closer attention. He went on many dates. Had a lot of very short relationships. They always ended up going nowhere because of the simple reason that none of them could never beat Sherlock out for attention.  
  
  
“Hello.”  
  
“Hello.”  
  
A more genuine smile appeared on Sherlock's face. An exchange of two words between him and John was enough to bring his spirits up after the awful trip there and the mental gymnastics he'd endured through the day to make it bearable to go at all.   
  
John was sitting opposite him, nursing a beer. And on yet another date.   
  
“Didn't rain on you way, then. I got soaked,” John said. Sherlock could tell that John had spent some time in the restroom, artfully using the rainwater to style his hair. John was very particular about his hair.  
  
“No. I estimated the time it would end. I was correct. It also cut ten minutes off this evening by making me late,” Sherlock said.   
  
John grinned. He opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a waitress appearing by Sherlock's side.  
  
“Drink, sir?” she said, offering him a drinks menu.  
  
“He'll have a hot chocolate. With rum. Lots of whipped cream,” John said. He kept grinning, now raising his eyebrow to go with it.  
  


Sherlock was puzzled by the eyebrow. He didn't know the eyebrow. What did the eyebrow mean?   
  
The waitress looked at him, waiting for confirmation. Sherlock nodded. “I'll be as quick as a flash,” she said.   
  


The eyebrow had disappeared. That wouldn't do, so Sherlock continued the subject which had brought it around the first time. “Why did you order me hot chocolate?” he asked.   
  
“Because I know you'll like it,” John said. The eyebrow didn't appear again. Sherlock frowned. John caught the attention of their waitress and tapped on his glass.   
  
John was drinking. Not just having drinks with a meal, but actively drinking. Sherlock didn't know what to make of John tonight. _The eyebrow must be a consequence of the drinking,_ Sherlock thought. But it was one he had never seen before and he had seen John drunk before. There was nothing else that seemed odd about John. He was wearing his Christmas jumper which was what he wore to Christmas parties, so Sherlock supposed a Christmas themed wedding party wasn't odd. Sherlock decided to figure out by the end of the evening what the eyebrow meant. Maybe it, like the jumper, was entirely seasonal.   
  
Sherlock did like the hot chocolate. So much so that he ordered another one when he finished the first one off.  
  
“You'll ruin your dinner if you drink yourself full of that,” John said.   
  
There was a twinkle in his eye that drew Sherlock in. He leaned forward. “Food is unnecessary,” he said. It usually riled John up when he refused food.  
  
“A lot of things are strictly unnecessary,” John replied. The eyebrow made a return. “Food isn't one of them, but I suppose you could do worse than not eating because you're full of alcoholic hot chocolate.”  
  
Sherlock leaned forward even more. The eyebrow had a curious effect on him. He wanted to get nearer to it. “Why are you doing that?” The expression on John's face told Sherlock he needed to be more detailed. “You are raising your eyebrow. You've done it twice. What does it _mean_?”  
  
He realised his mistake when John's countenance changed from relaxed to guarded in a matter of a second.   
  
“It's just my face moving,” John said. He turned to pay attention to his date, who was starting to look a little sour.  
  
“No, it's not! It doesn't usually move that way!” Sherlock said, his voice raised in frustration.   
  
“Maybe you aren't as bloody perceptive as you think you are. My face can move however it likes!” John said, raising his voice to match Sherlock's.   
  
“Hey, why are you fighting? It's _Christmas_!” a researcher who Sherlock had never bothered to memorise the name of said cheerfully.  
  
Sherlock scowled at him. He opened his mouth to counter but was interrupted.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock. Don't. Just let it be,” Molly said. She looked anxious, which did not match her outfit at all. “Let's just have a nice time. It's Mike big night.”  
  
Sherlock kept scowling and directed it at John instead of the unimportant 'co-worker' he had never worked with in his life. John scowled back.   
  
Molly decided to take matter into her own hands and took off her reindeer antlers. She thought for a second of sticking them on Sherlock's head but she could never dare. She reached over the table and put them on John's. It elicited a laugh from John's date.  
  
For a split second, John looked annoyed but then he remembered he was supposed to set some sort of example to Sherlock about common social decency and he smiled. It was one of the more fake smiles Sherlock had ever seen on John's face, and he had seen a few. Sherlock, unlike John, didn't bother striving for decency. He smiled mockingly at John.  
  
“Very festive,” he said.  
  
John ignored him. “Sorry, Molly. Of course,” he said. He valiantly adjusted the antlers.  
  
Usually being ignored by John would have infuriated Sherlock but this time it only made him smile wider. “Stunning. You've never looked better. Everyone in here wants to go out to dinner and hold hands with you in that romantic way that is advertised in movies,” Sherlock said. John went on so many fruitless dates. Sherlock knew he was hitting a sore point.   
  
“Including you,” Molly said under her breath.  
  
Sherlock turned his head to her. Surely she hadn't said what he thought. Something icy slid into his stomach.  
  
“Nothing,” Molly said.  
  
 _Including you,_ is what she had said. Sherlock was certain of it. It was shocking – he knew she was a silly girl but this surpassed anything he had thought. But Sherlock did something completely uncharacteristic. He let it go.  
  
The food arrived. It was served one agonising course at a time and they had to sit down the whole time. Sherlock mentioned to the waitress that the hors d'oeuvres were disgusting and she stalked off after snapping back at him that she had made the particular ones he was eating.   
  
“Great job, you've really made that poor waitress' Christmas. She's probably run off her feet in the Christmas rush and now she's probably going to spit in your food,” John said.   
  
“Spit would taste infinitely better than these,” Sherlock said. He gestured at the pale lumps on his plate.   
  
“Well, you don't say that even if it is true!” John said, just in time for the waitress to arrive again.  
  
John's date – that Sherlock had frankly forgotten was there, so mousy and meaningless was she – clapped her hand to her mouth and looked in shock at John. Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
  
“They're nice. Really – I was going to ask for the recipe,” the date said.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Where did John find these perfectly nice and _beige_ women?   
  
“Of course you were, judging by the way you almost strained the muscles in your face when you forced them down your throat, but by the looks of it you've had plenty of practise shoving things down your throat. Had an alternate career?” Sherlock said.  
  
“Sherlock!” John said.  
  
The date looked at John, waiting for more words to defend her but none came. She shook her head and it seemed to dawn on her that maybe John wasn't as nice as his flirtatious manner when they had met had promised.  
  
“Sherlock, _please_ ,” Molly begged. She understood that he was jealous. Sherlock was only human, he had to get the same lonely feeling around holidays that everyone else did.

 

Sherlock sat back. He decided to listen to Molly. He was feeling something akin to _dread,_ something he pushed away. It didn't need analysing.  
  
The main course came and went, John and Sherlock sniping at each other throughout. John's date excused herself to the restroom a quarter through her filet mignon and never returned. It took ten minutes for Molly to notice that either John's date was having some gastrointestinal distress or she had left.   
  
It took John twenty-five minutes and a question posed to him by their waitress if the lady earlier sat on his right would like the chocolate cake or fruit bowl with a choice of ice creams to notice that she had not come back.  
  
“Shit,” John said. It dawned on him very quickly. He got up and headed for the coat check.   
  
Sherlock who had been in the middle of saying something rude, followed.   
  
Molly, who could see the eruption of a conflict a mile off, followed, too.  
“Shit!” John said. His date's coat was gone. “She's left. Why would she leave?”   
  
Molly rolled her eyes and bit her tongue.   
  
Sherlock scoffed.  
  
“What's that supposed to mean?” John said, rounding on Sherlock.  
  
“Mean? It means that it's obvious to everyone here why she left,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Oh, is it?” Molly asked. It was obvious to her, at the very least. The woman had figured out very quickly who and what she was up against and decided to cut her losses, like all of John's girlfriends did sooner or later.

  
“Yes, it is!”  
  
“Go on then,” John said. His arms were tense and his fists were balled up.  
  
“For one thing, they see that you're not -”  
  
“STOP IT,” Molly shouted. Sherlock had building up to this point all night, getting angrier and angrier and was going to lash out at John like a hurt animal and it could put a stop to their friendship for weeks. “That's ENOUGH. This is Mike's wedding reception and you're both acting like children.”  
  
“I don't know what's wrong with him tonight! Or any other night, to be honest,” Sherlock said loudly.   
  
“Wrong with me? What's wrong with _you_?” John said.  
  
“Oh for Christ's sake. It's _love_ , actually,” Molly said. Her patience and temper both ran out at the same time. And then it came back with a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” she said, “I am sorry.”  
  
“Love?” Sherlock said, aghast.   
  
John's eyes had widened. Like a deer in headlights, he looked like he was about to be confronted with something he'd _really_ rather not be confronted with.   
  
“Ignore me. Too much to drink, you know me,” Molly said.  
  
“You've had one glass of wine. Your tolerance is much higher than that,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Excuse me? Are you saying I'm a drinker?” Molly said. She was trying to deflect away from the situation but she knew it was useless. Sherlock would never let her and this time it would be for his own detriment.  
  
“Love?” Sherlock repeated.   
  
“Now, listen-” John started but Sherlock held up a hand to him. Molly was saying something interesting. It felt like a puzzle piece to something he had been trying to work out.  
  
“Oi!” John said. His temper rose quickly when he was under emotional strain. He wasn't dumb to his feelings. He knew what he felt for Sherlock and apparently Molly did too and saw it fit to tell Sherlock.   
  
“No, that's enough out of both of you. I'm going home,” Molly said. Her eyes started to well up with tears.  
  
“No, you're not. What do you mean it's _love, actually_? Are you saying that I-” Sherlock trailed off. _  
  
Oh. Oh no._   
  
Molly looked at the two men in front of her. John looked like he had realised that she knew about his feelings, and Sherlock looked like he had just realised his own feelings. She sighed. Maybe she would be doing them a favour. Maybe she was doing herself one, finally releasing herself from the quiet hope of _maybe someday Sherlock will see me_.   
  


“I mean, what's bringing you to act like this tonight is _love._ You love each other. Sherlock, you love John. John, you love Sherlock.”  
  
“I-” Sherlock said, ready to deny it, but his rum hot chocolate had lubricated his mind to accept the _perhaps impossible._ He couldn't feel love. He didn't _feel_ things that way. Of course, it could be misinterpreted as he was always at his happiest when John was there. He never laughed as hard as he did when he was with John. No one could make him angrier. And the pit in his stomach when John brought another girlfriend around was _normal_ , he just didn't _like_ them.   
  
Or...   
  
“Oh,” he said. He was defeated in the face of the facts.  
  
“Oh?” John said. His lips stayed circle shaped.  
  
“Molly seems to be correct. It seems the fact point to that I harbour feelings for you. That what it is, is actually love.”  


John looked as if the slightest breeze would bowl him over. “W-what?” John said.  
  
Sherlock realised what he had said and done. He opened his mouth to rectify the situation, perhaps by mocking Molly but Molly put a stop to it.

  
“ _ Love.  _ You know, what you feel for Sherlock, too,” Molly said.

 

John gasped and Molly rolled her eyes. “Oh, for goodness sake. The secrets out. You love each other. You should be kissing. You know what? I've done by best. It's not up to me. It's up to you. I'm going to have chocolate cake.”   
  
With that she left, leaving two men to stare each other. For the first time that night they found it perfectly easy to do as Molly had been begging the all night – to shut up.  


 


	11. Day Four - GolfEchoRomeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part the fourth of GER's series.

_Fourth Year of Christmas_

 

John tapped the table in annoyance.  Sherlock was late, and not just a few minutes late.  Sherlock Holmes was an hour late.  

 

"Sir," the waiter said, as he came around the table for what had to have been the seventeenth time, "I'm afraid if your guest does not arrive within five minutes, we are going to have to ask you to leave."

 

"I made a reservation," John said, trying to keep calm.

 

"Yes," the waiter said with phony sympathy. "But unfortunately, so did all of those other people outside of the restaurant waiting to get in."

 

John refused to look out the window, knowing that his anger and Sherlock and the guilt of keeping people from using his table would win out.  "I'm sure the manager would-"

 

"The manager is the one who said we will only wait five more minutes," the waiter said quickly.  "You've tried to contact your guest?"

 

"Yes," John said through gritted teeth. "But he's not answering."

 

"I see," the waiter said.  He wrote something down on his notepad and placed it on the table, face down.  "I'm sorry that you're being stood up, especially at Christmas."  He strode away from the table before John could respond. 

 

  
_This is a nightmare,_  John thought.  He had told Sherlock of the plans.  He had been explicit in what time Sherlock was expected to be there. This was going to be a big night for them.  Trying to book a reservation so close to Christmas was a feat in itself, but John had agonized over the perfect gift for Sherlock for weeks before he settled on something.  The little cardboard box wrapped in red and silver paper sat in his pocket, its recipient not answering and calls or texts.  

 

Needing something to distract him from the sinking feeling in his chest, John flipped over the piece of paper left by the waiter and read it. 

 

  
_I get off work tonight at midnight. If your bloke doesn't show up and you need some holiday cheering up, call me_. 

 

John didn't even bother to read the number that had been scrawled underneath the message.  He felt sick to his stomach.  Sherlock was a no-show and the waiter who watched the whole scene unfold was offering to be a pity shag.  Refusing to let himself be a mockery of what the night should have been any longer, John put on his coat and left the restaurant, with three of his five minutes remaining. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock was exhausted, but he looked around John's flat with a sense of pride.  John had mentioned something about having plans that night so this was Sherlock's moment.  He had secretly made a copy of the key to John's flat weeks ago in preparation.  All he had to do was wait for John to say when he would be out of the flat and then he could make his move. 

 

Two weeks earlier, John had mentioned something about going to dinner at some restaurant on the night of the twenty third, and Sherlock had tuned out the rest of what he was being told.  It was just noise at that point.  He brain kicked into high gear and he started to make his plans. 

 

"I think that just about does it," he said to himself as he put the very last finishing touches on the nativity scene, displayed on the mantle.  

  
There was the sound of a key turning in the lock and Sherlock quickly began to play the music that he had cued up: every song played during Love Actually.  It was on shuffle, and the first one up was "Both Sides Now" by Joni Mitchell.  Sherlock inwardly cursed, wishing that something else had begun instead, but the door was opening and there was no time to change the song.  Hopefully the song playing while Emma Thompson's character felt alone and betrayed in her bedroom wouldn't dampen the mood too much. 

 

"John!" Sherlock said as his boyfriend walked through the door.  "Surpri-"

 

"Where the  _hell_ were you?" John shouted, his voice screwed up in fury and pain. 

 

"What?" Sherlock asked.  "Here.  I've been here... I wanted to sur-"

 

"Did you even fucking listen to what I told you this morning?" John demanded, slamming the door shut behind him.  "Do you  _ever_  listen?"

 

Sherlock didn't say anything.  He tried to replay the thing John had told him this morning... There was definitely a memory of John standing in front of him and speaking, but Sherlock had been thinking about other things.  

 

"Oh my god," John whispered, as though seeing Sherlock in a new light.  "You really didn't listen to me when I told you?  I'm such a fucking idiot.  I spent the whole day stressing about the dinner tonight and you didn't even bother to pay attention when I told you."

 

"Dinner tonight?" Sherlock asked.  "I knew you were going to dinner tonight.  You mentioned it weeks ago."

 

"Yeah, I did," John said, his voice staying low, but it taking on a dangerous timbre.  "I told you weeks ago that I had booked a dinner for us at Clos Maggiore tonight and that you needed to be there at seven. It's almost nine now, Sherlock. I waited there for over an hour.  They were about to kick me out because you hadn't shown up.  You... You stood me up. On  _Christmas."_  


"It was not my intention," Sherlock said, feeling all of his hard work slip away.  "I was-"

 

"Why the fuck is that song playing," John asked.  "It's adding insult to injury. You know I hate that scene. Why are..."  

 

John's voice trailed off as he looked around the living room of his flat. 

 

"What the hell is going on," he whispered as he walked away from Sherlock and deeper into the wonderland that the living room had been transformed into.  

 

"We had talked about watching Love Actually tonight and..."  Sherlock quickly hit the 'next' button on his phone that was plugged into the speakers.  Otis Redding's "White Christmas" began to play and Sherlock was relieved to hear the jazz music start.  

 

"And you turned my flat into the fucking film," John said as he looked around.  

 

Sherlock stood back and watched silently as John moved from the banoffee pie he had baked and put out on the coffee table to the nativity scene on the mantle (complete with Spiderman, lobster, and octopus), to the poster print of the naked men facing away and wearing santa hats.  There was fake snow and garland covering every inch of the living room.  On the tree, Sherlock had hung ornaments made from index cards, each one having a line from Mark's declaration of love for Juliet.  John spoke not a word as he looked at everything Sherlock had done, and he finally stopped moving as he came across a giant box wrapped in a cellophane bag, potpourri and a cinnamon stick at the bottom.  Sherlock had painstakingly recreated the gift than Alan Rickman's character gets gift wrapped.  But inside wasn't a necklace for someone else.  Inside was a watch that John had seen in a shop months ago. 

 

"Sherlock," John said, looking at the gift and not meeting Sherlock's eyes. There was a note of sadness in his voice that made Sherlock's blood turn to icy dread. 

 

"I missed dinner tonight," Sherlock said.  "Forgive me.  I was doing this.  I thought-"

 

John frowned and looked up at Sherlock.  "You stood me up."

 

"I didn't know."

 

"I _told_  you about the plans."

 

"Yes, but I was so focused on this that-"

 

"Sherlock, you ditched me on Christmas."

 

"Technically, Christmas is the day after tomorrow."

 

"Don't think you're off the hook on a technicality."

 

Sherlock took a step forward.  "Just open the gift, John."

 

John paused for a moment before shaking his head.  "No. I can't do that."

 

Sherlock's stomach dropped.  "John, just open it. Everything will be-"

 

"It won't be better, Sherlock, so don't you dare say that to me," John growled.  "Now explain something to me.  How the hell did you get into my flat?"

 

This brought Sherlock up short. "I took your key and made a copy of it for myself," he said. "That's what you're upset about?"

 

"Yeah, that's what I'm upset about," John said, clenching his fists.  "I can't open the gift you gave me because whatever you got for me is going to be better than what I'm giving to you now."

 

"John, I don't understand."

 

John took the little red and silver wrapped box out of his pocket and threw it at Sherlock. 

 

"Open it," he commanded in such a way that Sherlock did not try to argue. 

 

Delicately, Sherlock took off the wrapping paper and opened the small box.  Inside sat a silver key attached to a keychain depicting a cartoon image of reindeer antlers.  "You got me a key?" he asked, puzzled. 

 

"Yeah," John said, sounding miserable.  "I got you a key to my flat and you already fucking had one."

 

"Is this so I can come and go whenever I please instead of using it to sneak in when you're out?" Sherlock asked, hopeful that this meant they weren't breaking up. 

 

"Not exactly," John said.  "I wanted it to mean something more, but the effect is lost since you already have-"

 

"John, what does this mean," Sherlock asked fervently.  He did not even register that the background music had changed to "All I Want For Christmas Is You."  

 

"It means that I'm asking you to move in with me," John said, is voice tight with stress.  

 

"You still want to after tonight?" Sherlock asked, daring not to hope too much. 

 

"Of course," John whispered, and a pause followed his words.  He looked at Sherlock and something changed in his eyes.  The anger that had been there since he had come home was replaced by a softness that only John's eyes could manage.  "Is that a yes?" he asked and his lips began to curve up into a smile. 

 

"Yes," Sherlock whispered as he crossed the living room, _their_  living room, and kissed John deeply.


	12. Day Four - Anne

It had all started with a bet.

 

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a gambling man, per se, but… John was around, spending more time with Sherlock than he was with his wife, and so the detective was on his worst behavior. And that meant that when the quite frankly adorable bartender they were interviewing for a case left the room, Sherlock had done something very not good: he had started talking about boys with John. What? They were in a gay bar. It only seemed appropriate. 

 

He proceeded in the most arrogant way possible, of course, flaunting his few, but very serious sexual experiments in front of his best friend like sex was a completely normal topic for them. He started slowly, with mention of an old boyfriend he had had who looked sort of like their witness, more built though. And then, before he even knew what was happening, he was talking about the time he had been in a foursome back in uni, the time he had been tied up and gagged by a very sexy older man, the time he had been shagged passionately while in drag (blue glitter had gotten _everywhere_ ), and most importantly he talked about flirting. He knew when a man was coming onto him; hell, it happened to him all the time. 

 

And John, who had been utterly shocked by his best friend's unexpected behavior at first, became a bit cockier himself as the conversation progressed. 

 

“Is that so, Sherlock? You can just get all the boys into bed?” 

 

“Obviously, John. I’m a very attractive man.” 

 

“You _are_ a very attractive man. No one is questioning that. I just didn’t think this was your area.” John thought he was an attractive man? Sherlock swelled up with pride. 

 

“Just… sometimes.” John chuckled. Sherlock was cute like this, trying to prove that he was a player when they both knew that he was much more accustomed to being pursued. And promptly shutting down his pursuers. Fuck, John had been one of them. Not like he was still bitter about that. 

 

“Bullshit, Sherlock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flirt. Not _really_.” 

 

“I flirt!”

 

“Well then, Casanova, ask him out.” 

 

“Who?” 

 

“The witness. We’re just about done here.” 

 

“ _John_. That’s inappropriate. We’re on a case.” 

 

“Oh, come on. He doesn’t know anything. And if you can get him to say yes, I… I’ll call you Master Sherlock every time I say your name at Mycroft’s Christmas Eve dinner. And if you can’t, then I get to choose one thing for you to wear there.”

 

“Deal.”  

 

\---

 

It wasn’t that the man hadn’t been interested in him—Sherlock had noticed that he was—it was that the man was married. Oh, damn it… How had he missed that? 

 

And so Sherlock was in a very fancy, very crowded restaurant with his brother, Mrs. Hudson, John, Mary, Lestrade, and his parents wearing a pair of felt _reindeer antlers,_ of all ridiculous things. And not too happy about it. John was an arse.

 

“So tell me, Brother dear, what exactly have you gotten yourself into this time? With the horns.” his brother asked with a smirk. He knew. He always knew. 

 

“Antlers,” John corrected boldly. He had had a bit to drink. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sherlock here lost a bet,” he added in self-satisfied explanation. “Apparently he thinks he’s way more irresistible than he really is.” Sherlock could feel himself getting hot with embarrassment. Why did they have to talk about this? Couldn’t they just finish this stupid dinner and go home? God, it was so hot… It felt like strangers were pressed up against him in every direction, clouding his vision, confusing his sense of smell. There were just too many goddamn people… 

 

“Oh, Sherlock, love…” Mary crooned. 

 

"Again, Brother dearest?” Mycroft taunted. His mother and Mrs. Hudson clucked sympathetically; Lestrade and his father did their best to pretend that this conversation wasn’t happening. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest defensively. This was humiliating… And John was here to watch, staring at him with those big, blue eyes like he was… nothing. His throat closed up a bit as tears threatened to overflow, but he held them back with a small swallow. His friends were just teasing, right? And he was a very attractive man and he could pull pretty much whichever man he wanted. Just not the man he wanted. The man who was his earth, his sun, the stars in his sky, the man whose name alone made his heart leap upwards against his ribcage and enter a race with the wind. “You always go after the ones who aren’t interested… I would have thought you had learned your lesson by now.” 

 

At that, Sherlock threw down his silverware, jerked the antlers off his head, and snapped them in half. The restaurant seemed to go silent. He slammed the pieces into the table. Sherlock gave a final long look at John, and then, with a dramatic flourish of his coat, he was gone. 

 

\---

 

By the time Sherlock knocked on John’s door, it was very late. And cold. A light snow dusted his dark curls with white and wet his cheeks and nose. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but if he didn’t see John, he was going to die. Sherlock was sure that people died of broken hearts all the time, if the vast amalgamation of fiction on the subject was anything to go by… He had yet to isolate the scientific reason for this phenomena, but he wouldn’t be the first to fail at such an ambitious task.

 

John opened the door in a cream colored jumper, his hair mussed up and his lips red, ostensibly chapped from earlier in the night. He looked impossibly beautiful standing there, surprised but pleased. Warm. Sweet. 

 

Sherlock checked the speaker and then pressed play on his phone, shuffling around a stack of signs, hastily covered in his distinctive scrawl. He lifted the first one for John to see.

 

_Say it’s carol singers._

John looked confused, but he nodded. Sherlock could hear Mary shifting around inside the house, probably preparing to climb into bed with her husband, but before she made an appearance at the door and ruined Sherlock’s plan, John called out to her. 

 

_With any luck, by next year I’ll be dating the man at the bar._

_But for now let me say, without hope or agenda, just because it’s Christmas (and at Christmas you tell the truth) to me, you are perfect._

John’s face shattered like glass, all of the familiar lines emerging in what Sherlock would describe as the most profound expression of pain and love and a lot of other things. A couple of rogue tears stained his own face as he worked up the courage to do what he had come to John’s house to do, even though he couldn’t exactly see things ending well for either of them. He had always meant to do something like this really, but somehow, he had really fucked up. Really, really fucked up. And the words had gone unsaid, and John… John had really needed to hear them. From him. And Sherlock knew that he was too late, but somehow this was still important. Of the utmost importance. 

 

_John, I love you. And I will always love you._

After John had read the words, Sherlock let the sign slip from his hands like the others and just stared, stared at this perfect being, his _favorite_ person in the whole world. And then he collected the signs and started on his way back home. 

 

John stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder, and caught him with a tender kiss to the lips. The young genius froze, his brain frantically trying to preserve this singular moment, this singular moment that was more integral to his survival than everything that he had stored in his mind palace. The feeling of John’s lips, the softness of his hair, the slight taste of tea, the warmth emanating from John’s arms.

 

And then it was over, and Sherlock was alone again.

 


	13. Day Five - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Todays's prompts are: Church, Mistletoe and Miracle on 34th Street.

John Watson sat in the fifth row at church. It was a Wednesday and no one was there but him. It was a last resort. Everything was hopeless. How had his life turned out this way? He'd had such big plans but a bullet to his shoulder had put an end to it a few months earlier.   
  
Since then there had only been despair, loneliness and meaninglessness.   
  
So here he was at Christmas time hoping that despite the agnostic way he lived life a benevolent God would reach down and pluck him out of his misery. He sat for an hour, waiting for clarity to arrive. For a renewed purpose or even the slightest glimmer of hope. There was none.   
  
He resigned to it. He had his gun in his desk at home. He'd been looking at it for weeks now but had talked himself out of it every time. This night would be the night. Maybe he'd end up a little notice in the newspaper.   
  
_War veteran, 34, kills self in London flat._  
  
He reached for his cane and curled his fingers around it. He hated how familiar it had become. He hobbled to a stand and was almost knocked back into his seat by a running figure speeding past him.  
  
“Catch him! Catch him!” someone shouted from down the aisle.   
  
John didn't hesitate. Adrenaline spiked in his bloodstream and it made his heart kick start. He dropped the cane and started to run. His leg protested for a moment but the someone behind him kept shouting for the running man to be caught and the protests were drowned out.

 

The chase led them to the altar and into the back where the pastor had his rooms.   
  
They all poured into a room with a lit fireplace with mistletoe hanging off the mantle and several squashy recliners. The pursued man took a running jump over one of the recliners but was stopped by a locked door from going any further. He turned around and John got a look of his face. He had a big scar over his eye and a mean glare. John steeled himself for a fight. A proper fight. His heart was thumping.  
  
“The police are on their way to arrest you. It would do you good to give up,” the third man in the room said. His voice was deep and despite the fact that he was panting from the chase, it carried a lot of gravitas.  
  
It kicked the scarred man into gear. He ran towards them, meaning to bowl them over to get to the room and escape.   
  
John dug his heels into the floor and leaned forward, catching him in a violent hug. He quickly slipped a leg between the scarred man's and tripped him over. The man landed with a thud on his back and John secured him by swooping down and sitting over his hips, his feet locking the man's legs down and likewise with their arms.   
  
John was elated. He was alive. He had potentially just meddled in something that could put him in danger, or man-handled someone entirely innocent. He didn't care.

The police arrived five minutes later and removed John from his charge.   
  
“Thank you,” the third man said. It was the first time they had spoken.   
  
“Not a problem,” John said. He was straightening his jumper. He looked up, a smile already on his face. He reached his hand forward. “John.”  
  
“John.” The man nodded approvingly. “Sherlock,” he said.   
  
They shook hands.  
  
“Who was he?” John asked.  
  
“A criminal. Quite vicious. Not bad of a invalided officer to catch him,” Sherlock said.  
  
“H-how-” John started.  
  
“We're going to the police station. I'll tell you in the cab,” Sherlock said.  
  
As if it was the most natural thing in the world, John followed the man he had just met and caught a criminal with.   
  
Upon reflection a few days later he realised he had gotten exactly what he had gone to the church for.

 


	14. Day Five - Golf Echo Romeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part the fifth of GERs series!

_Fifth Year of Christmas_

Sherlock felt like his life was ending.  Everything was spiraling out of control. The night had started out perfectly.  He and John had curled up on the couch together to watch the annual movie; this year's was Miracle on 34th Street. There had been something in tight in John's body language, but Sherlock had thought he knew what that was about. 

 

  
_He's going to propose tonight_ , he kept thinking every time John's body tightened up or tensed around him. Sherlock decided to use the plot of the movie to distract John and get him to feel comfortable. 

 

"This movie operates on the basic assumption that there is a Santa Claus," Sherlock said.

 

"Yeah, but come on," John said, trying to make his voice sound normal.  "You must have believed in Santa as a child."

 

"I figured out early on that he was fake," Sherlock said. 

 

"All kids figure it out," John said, a sad smile on his face.  "How old were you?"

 

"I was four."

 

"Bullshit," John said and laughed, though Sherlock could tell there was something off in the laugh.  It was forced to sound too breezy.  "There's no way you solved it when you were four."

 

"Well, that was when I first started to have my doubts," Sherlock admitted. 

 

"I still don't believe you," John said.  "There's no way that you stopped believing when you were four.  You had to be older."

 

"You've met Mycroft," Sherlock said.  "He's not exactly the best when it comes to keeping secrets."

 

John shook his head. "Yeah, but I also know a side of Mycroft that you don't really see. The side the he-"

 

"No, don't say it," Sherlock groaned.

 

"That he actually does love and care about you," John said loudly, interrupting Sherlock. 

 

"Regardless," Sherlock said, choosing to ignore what John said and continuing his original train of thought.  "It gets harder to believe when you start observing Santa's inconsistencies.  It became very difficult for my parents to keep up with the charade so perfectly that I wouldn't catch on."

 

"What did it ultimately?" John asked quietly.  "What made you stop believing in Santa?"

 

"I asked Santa for a friend. I didn't get one."

 

Sherlock heard John swallow loudly and said, "But you're my friend now and I plan to always have you as-"

 

"Sherlock, I'm getting deployed."

 

There had been talks, of course, that John had wanted to join the army as a doctor to help pay off his medical school, even though Sherlock had offered to pay.  John wanted to do it his way, the right way as he called it, but Sherlock never saw it as a tangible thing that could possibly happen.  

 

"Sherlock did you hear what I -"

 

"I heard you."

 

There had been more talks that night, John saying things that Sherlock could not comprehend.  John would be gone, miles away. And Sherlock would be alone.  Would they break up?  Would John die?  No, Sherlock couldn't think about that.  He grabbed his coat and left the flat. 

 

It was snowing hard that night and Sherlock wasn't paying attention to where he was going. He had somehow ended up in front of a church.  Having never one to believe in any sort of religion, Sherlock could only appreciate the architecture of the building before.  But tonight, there was something different, perhaps because Sherlock was at the end of his rope and didn't know what to do, but he walked inside, the heavy church doors closing loudly behind him.

 

There were a few scattered people in the pews and Sherlock slipped into one in the back row.  He did not kneel, choosing instead to just sit and look around.  He sat there for about ten minutes, just observing, before an old man tapped him on the shoulder. 

 

"Mind if I...?"

 

Sherlock stared at the man.  "There are empty pews all over."

 

"My knees aren't what they used to be," the man said jovially.  "I don't think I could make it up to the front.  I usually just take this back pew when I come here. You're in my seat," he added and chuckled softly. 

 

Sherlock got up and allowed the man to move past his, leaving Sherlock sitting on the aisle. The two sat side by side for a minute or two before the old man spoke.

 

"I haven't seen you before around here," he said to Sherlock.  "A lot of souls find their way here at Christmas, needing comfort.  What brings you, if you don't mind me asking..."

 

The last thing Sherlock wanted was to talk to a stranger about his problems, but for some reason, he felt the strange desire to tell this man.  He chalked it up to the emotional upheaval he was experiencing and mentally gave himself a small pat on the back for not resorting to his usual method of coping, though he very much wanted to in that moment.  Instead, he would tell the man next to him. 

 

"My boyfriend is getting deployed," Sherlock said softly.  Hearing the words aloud gave them a weight that made Sherlock's eyes start to prickle with tears.  

 

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," the man said.  "Is he a soldier?"

 

"He's a doctor," Sherlock said, hating that his eyes were reaching the peak point of moisture. 

 

"Is he leaving soon?" the man asked gently.  "Is that why you're here?"

 

"He told me tonight," Sherlock said as the first tear broke through the barrier. 

 

"But there's still time to be with him, then," the man said with encouragement.  "Think of it this way.  You could spend tonight here in a church with people looking for guidance, looking for answers, questioning why life has made this turn... Or you could go home to your boyfriend and spend Christmas with him.  Time is a precious thing and it's only when you're older that you see how much of it has been wasted.  Don't waste tonight. Go home.  See John."

 

Sherlock stood up to go but froze and turned back to look at the old man.  "How did you know his name was John?" he asked.  "Do I... know you?"

 

"I heard you whispering his name when I walked up to you," the man said softly.  "I made the connection. It was easy enough.  Go see, John.  He probably needs your comfort as much as you need his."

 

Sherlock nodded at the man and left the church.  He did not notice the old man smile contentedly or give him a wink as Sherlock left the church.

 

It took far less time to get home than it did to get to the church, and Sherlock threw the door open, the snow swirling in with him. 

 

"John," he said fervently, moving towards the couch where John had been sitting since he left.  

 

"Sherlock, you came home," John said, his eyes also wet with tears.  "I didn't mean to ruin tonight. I needed to tell you and no matter what the timing was-"

 

"I know," Sherlock said.  "How long until you leave?"

 

"Two weeks," John said.  "They need medics over there as soon as possible."

 

"Then we'll make the most of our two weeks," Sherlock said, he leaned down and kissed John. 

 

"What made you change your mind?" John asked as they pulled apart.  "I thought there was a very real chance I might not ever see you again."

 

"I met an old man tonight who helped," Sherlock said.

 

"Sherlock, did you meet Santa?" John asked, smiling despite himself.

 

"I..."  Sherlock stopped. "He knew your name.  He knew I was talking about you.  He said it's because I was whispering your name but I don't think I was. I..."

 

"Sherlock, I was kidding," John said.  "Now shut up and kiss me."

 

Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling.  "We aren't directly under the mistletoe," he said.

 

"We don't need it," John whispered. "We can't wait around for mistletoe. And... what you said before about wanting a friend for Christmas. Sherlock, no matter what happens while I'm-"

 

"John, just kiss me."

 

The two kissed, slightly askew from the mistletoe, having done enough talking for the night. There would be time to talk the next day, time to talk in the next two weeks.  For for that night, no more words needed to be spoken. 


	15. Day Five - Anne

John Watson hadn't believed in god since going to war. 

 

But this year Harry had insisted that they go to a Christmas service together. She was newly sober and full of faith, and John hadn’t had the heartless courage to rebuff her, although he couldn't help but wonder when the relapse was coming. There was always a relapse, and then everything would go back to the way it always was. Cold and godless. Just the way he liked it. Maybe he didn't /like/ it, per se, but he at least knew what to expect. 

 

Lots of whiskey, maybe a full bottle of it. And whatever he could afford for dinner. Maybe some instant noodles. 

 

But, until then, they would pretend, he and his sister. He had already purchased them a turkey. 

 

"Love thy neighbor," the pastor proclaimed. John smiled a curt smile. They had been raised Catholic, but Harry had gotten herself mixed up in a non-denominational affair with a handful of other members of AA. So far the service wasn't so bad--the singing was nice--but John was getting antsy. 

 

His father had been religious too, a proper Catholic. And that hadn't stopped him from being a drinker and a bigot and a hitter. Was this god bullshit supposed to save anyone? John found himself thinking to himself, hazarding a glance in Harry's direction. She was smiling widely, and her eyes were glistening. That's what it was about, wasn't it? Being saved... Being safe. Being warm. Being loved. But not John Watson. He was never going to be saved, because he wasn't a sucker like his sister, he wasn't about to buy this shit. 

 

"Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven..." 

 

John felt his chest tighten and his own eyes began to glisten with wet. He held them back. 

 

"I... uh, I have to go, Harry. I'll be outside when it's over," he whispered to his sister, pressing a soft kiss onto the top of her head. She nodded and returned her attention to the pastor. 

 

John squeezed out of his row and down the aisle, finally catching a deep breath of cold air as the huge wooden door shut behind him. 

 

/Christ./ He couldn't take anymore of that self-righteousness. 

 

Time to go to a bar, while Harry was preoccupied. He would brush his teeth afterwards and they wouldn't talk about it, about the way he was slipping down into darkness, into the mud and filth and sewage of London in his attempts to start a medical practice of his own. The nightmares wouldn't let him. He couldn't sleep with all the nightmares. 

 

\---

 

"Whiskey. Make it a double," John said in a voice that was stronger than he felt. He was about six drinks in. Harry had gone home with a friend. 

 

"Two of those," an impossibly smooth voice corrected. 

 

A pale hand reached out for the drink and then a beautiful white face framed in dark brown leaned over the bar beside him. 

 

"Oo, this alcohol is really the cheapest they serve, isn't it? My father would be appalled."

 

John snorted. 

 

"Cheap stuff does its job."

 

"Obviously, but at what cost?" the man teased in a very sarcastic voice as he sipped at his whiskey. "Sherlock Holmes." 

 

"Captain John Watson." 

 

"Explains why you're so stiff," Sherlock remarked in amusement. 

 

"Won't be for long," John replied. Sherlock's eyebrow perked up. Wouldn't be what for long? Wouldn't be stiff for long? Wouldn't be Captain John Watson for long? Wouldn't be alive for long? Sherlock didn't ask, and he kept his deductions to himself. "You judging me?" John asked, his voice harsh and defensive. "You should be. I just ran out of a church. Some sorry arse was talking about salvation, heaven, that sort of bullshit. But I wouldn't be going to heaven anyway, you know? I'm a fucking sinner. Murder, sodomy, greed, lust, envy. I don't need to be reminded of all that shit."

 

"Sodomy?" 

 

"Ha! Yeah, turns out I'm a faggot." Sherlock let out a wry laugh. "Come dance with me." 

 

"Yeah, okay. Why the fuck not?" John replied, climbing off of his  stool and swaggering over to where Sherlock was beckoning him. He limped a bit as he walked but his leg didn't bother him as much while they were dancing. They danced for a long time, one of Sherlock's arms draped over John's shoulders and his face pressed against the soft hair on the side of John's head. The couple drifted around the small patch of dance floor, Sherlock growing increasingly empathetic towards the man in his arms. 

 

"You have to kiss me. We're under mistletoe," Sherlock finally murmured, feeling his face growing red. 

 

John tilted his head to the side and gave Sherlock a very soft, very sad kiss, which Sherlock accepted gratefully, bringing his hands to the sides of John's face to look at him for a moment.

 

John lifted his eyes up to heaven, his whole face pale and wrinkled with exhaustion. 

 

"I don't see anything," he said softly, not like he minded that Sherlock had tricked him into a kiss like that.

 

"I know. But sometimes it's worth it to believe in something."


	16. Day Six - Avath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ho ho ho!! Today's prompts are: Homeless shelter, Tinsel and A Wonderful Life

Sherlock mindlessly followed a steady stream of raggedly dressed people into a brightly lit canteen. He had woken up after a bender and he didn't know what day it was or how long he'd been out of it this time. Someone from the drug den had shook him awake and thrown his coat over him and dragged him along here. Sherlock's brain was so slow that he hadn't yet figured out where he was. He signed a paper with a fake name – Billy Basil – and proceeded down a hallway. It was first when he was handed a towel, soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste that he realised he had arrived at a homeless shelter.   
  


_I have a home_ , he thought. He didn't know where he was in London – if he still was in London – but he could make his way home at anytime. Nevertheless, he shuffled down the line toward the showers. He removed his clothes and let the warm water rinse off days of sweat and other liquids he didn't want to think of too closely. His clothes were tagged and swept away to be washed as he cleaned himself off. He received a scratchy pair of sweatpants, t-shirt, underwear, socks and flipflops.   
  
“They're only for you to borrow,” he was informed. He nodded.   
  
“Lucky for you, we have a doctor here on Tuesdays so I'll have him come look at your leg,” he was told. Sherlock wrinkled his forehead in confusion. He looked down at his legs, tugging up the trousers legs. He had a deep cut that looked infected on his left shin.   
  
“Oh,” he breathed. It would make sense he'd need a doctor for it.   
  
He was shown to his bunk bed and given a sandwich and bottle of water. He ate and drank, and while it felt strange to have food in his mouth his body responded as if it had been starving. Afterwards, he laid down and stared into the bottom of the top bunk.   
  
What was the point of his life? A black pit opened in his stomach and started to swallow him whole.  Faces of those who had believed in him through his life circled in his mind.   
  
_You'll do great things.  
You are extraordinary._

 _Amazing, just delightful! What a brain you have._  
  
What had he done with all his talents, his great mind and drive? Nothing. But what had all those things done for him? He'd been isolated from regular people and constantly bored.   
  
What was the point in all of it?   
  
Sherlock decided that once he'd gathered enough energy he would make his way home for one last hit. A final one to end it all. 

 

“Mr. Basil? Excuse me, Mr. Basil? My name is Doctor Watson and I'm here to look at your leg. Are you all right?”   
  
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and he woke. He was met with a concerned looking face. The cogs in his brain struggled to get in motion. “Doctor?” he mumbled. He could smell his own breath and it was awful.  
  
“Yes, I'm Doctor Watson. I heard you have a nasty cut on your leg? Can I see it?” Doctor Watson said. 

 

“My leg is injured,” Sherlock said.  
  
The pity in Doctor Watson's eyes was painful. He was someone to be pitied now. The man with the brain, the man who used to solve crimes and experiment on interesting things – he was gone and left with someone to be pitied.   
  
“Yes, it is,” Doctor Watson said.   
  
_I'm not usually this slow on the uptake,_ Sherlock wanted to say but what use would that do? All Doctor Watson saw was a strung out addict with barely two brain cells to rub together.  
  
“Better have a look then,” Sherlock said.  
  
Doctor Watson nodded. He rolled up his sleeves and put on a pair of gloves.   
  
“Oh dear, Mr. Basil, I think you might need some antibiotics for this. I'll take a sample,” Doctor Watson said after a quick examination. He started to prepare a swab to sample the wound. He carefully bandaged the wound and pulled Sherlock's trouser leg back down.“Will you come see me in my clinic in a few days? The results should be back then and I'll be able to prescribe you some antibiotics,” he said.   
  
“Um, I,” Sherlock said.   
  
“You think on that and I'll draw some blood,” Doctor Watson said. He was apparently used to ambivalence. Doctor Watson filled a phial and nodded contentedly. “That's all I'll need. Just to keep track of the infection,” he said, smiling in a reassuring way. “Mr. Basil was it?” he said. There was an innocent air about him but even in his dulled state Sherlock could tell that there was more to the question.  
  
“You know I'm lying,” Sherlock said.  
  
Doctor Watson smiled. “A lot of people lie,” he said simply.  
  
“Yes, they do,” Sherlock said.   
  
“So what should I mark this phial with?” Doctor Watson asked.  
  
“Holmes,” Sherlock said. “Holmes, S.”  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Doctor Watson said. He scribbled on a card. “Here is my information. In three days come to this address and ask for me. No charge. I'll see to it that you get what you need. That's Friday, yes? If you should worsen during that time with a fever or pain in your leg, call this number. Okay?”   
  
Sherlock stared at the card being handed to him. It was so kind. Were there still kind people in the world? People who would still be kind to him? It didn't matter. He had made his decision and he was going to follow through on it. There was no reason to live on.   
  
“Thank you,” he said.   
  
“I'll see you on Friday,” Doctor Watson said.   
  
Doctor Watson's departure brought a new wave of despair rushing over Sherlock. A human, kind touch had apparently eased his suffering for a few blessed minutes. Perhaps it was the last time before his suffering eased forever.  
  
Sherlock laid back in his bunk and soon fell asleep again. His body was exhausted. His mind was exhausted. His soul was despairing.  


“Sherlock. Sherlock wake up. Quickly now,” a voice whispered in his ear.   
  
Sherlock's eyes fluttered opened once more. “Doctor Watson?” he asked.  
  
A chuckle. “No, not this time. Here, put on your coat and let's take a walk. We need to talk.”  
  
Sherlock sat up and found to his relief that his head had cleared markedly. “Who are you?”  
  
“I'm the ghost of Christmases past.” Another chuckle. “No, I'm your guardian angel. Tom.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. Maybe his head wasn't as clear as he thought.   
  
“No, really I am. And I know you've been despairing tonight. Thinking of those drugs you have at home? Putting just enough of them into your body that you die? You really mustn't do that, Sherlock,” Tom said.  
  
“How did you-” Sherlock started but he stopped when Tom chuckled again. It was an easy little laugh filled with warmth. Like he had told Doctor Watson, he knew people lied but there was something about Tom that seemed sincere. But... “There's no such thing as guardian angels.”  
  
“Oh, well I must be just in your imagination then. Come on, Sherlock. Let's go for a walk.”  
  
Inquisitive and curious as he was, Sherlock felt he had nothing to lose and did as Tom asked.  
  
They walked. They rode the tube. They walked again.   
  
“Always have to make such long trips in London to make your points,” Tom complained.   
  
“What point?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“We're getting to it. See that house there on the corner? That's were the Hanson family live. Do you remember them? You helped them out of a tight spot.”  
  
“Yes.” The father had been receiving threatening letters. A disgruntled former employee of Mr. Hanson's book shop had been responsible for them and had been framing Mr. Hanson with tax crimes. It was so well done that had Sherlock not been there to help them the scheme would have worked and Mr. Hanson would have gone to jail.  
  
“Watch.”  
  
Sherlock saw the doors to the house open and movers started filing out with furniture and boxes of things. They loaded it into a waiting truck.

  
“No, please! Not the Christmas presents! They're from the children's grandparents!” Mrs. Hanson wailed.  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened. “But I stopped them. I cleared his name. I-”  
  
“Not here. Not in this world. Not in the world were you don't exist. Like you wished tonight,” Tom said.  
  
Sherlock turned to stare at Tom. “Ridiculous,” he said, “what kind of imbecile do you take me for?”  
  
He quickly diagnosed Tom with mania – he obviously was under the delusion that he was an angel and had recognised Sherlock and read up on him. The Hanson's were obviously in trouble but that was obviously completely unrelated to his dealings with them.  
  
“Ridiculous,” he said again. He strode down the street and up the pathway to the house. “Mrs. Hanson. I offer my sincere condolences for the situation I find you in today.”  
  
Mrs. Hanson looked at him blankly and then with annoyance. “Who are you? Are you one of the neighbours come to circle the carcass like vultures? How dare you!”  
  
Sherlock looked down at her in surprise. “I'm Sherlock Holmes,” he said, as if it were perfectly clear who he was.  
  
“Who? Go away!” Mrs. Hanson said.  
  
“I helped your husband when he was being blackmailed,” Sherlock said. Obviously she was in a state of shock and couldn't remember.  
  
Her face paled. “How do you know about that?” She started to cry again.   
  
“Because I cleared it up with the police,” Sherlock said. He heard the pleading in his own voice. She _must_ remember him.  
  
“Cleared it up with the po- How dare you? _How dare you_. My husband is dead and they're repossessing my children's _Christmas presents_ and you come here and _mock_ me?” Mrs. Hanson drew herself up to her full height.  
  
“Dead?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Yes, dead! He killed himself! Last month we lost him and now we're losing everything else.”  
  
“But everything was fixed,” Sherlock said. He sounded very small.  
  
“Go! Or I'll call the police! I still have rights!”   
  
Sherlock stepped back and kept walking backwards until he hit the front gate. He ran back down the street to Tom.  
  
“You! Explain how you did this!” he shouted furiously.  
“I've done nothing, Sherlock Holmes. I am just showing you what could have been had you not been there to help,” Tom said.  
  
Sherlock had nothing to say. He did not understand.  
  
“Next up,” Tom said. He snapped his fingers and the environment around them changed.   
  
Sherlock was in Surrey, in front of his parents house.   
  
Tom chuckled. “Don't try to make sense of it, Sherlock, just follow me.” Tom lead them up the walkway and around the corner of the house. They peeped into the living room. Sherlock's father was sitting in a chair but there was no one else there with him. There were none of the Christmas decorations his parents always insisted on putting up, there was no cups of tea, not even a fire in the fireplace. Just his father.  
  
“Your mother left him twenty years ago. They had Mycroft and then they never managed to conceive again. Mycroft was quite a.... well, not as warm as other children. Too much like your mother, you see.” Tom chuckled again.   


Sherlock wished he'd stop finding the situation so funny when he was decidedly not having fun.  
  
“There was no you to brighten the household. Mycroft never got to peer on your face and experience the brotherly love that he would spend the rest of his life denying but always acting on. Your mother was never softened by your curly head of hair demanding her attention and was never forced to see that there was more to life than her research. Your father was no match for it alone. Without you, your family fell to pieces. Mycroft doesn't see the point in visiting.  _Love is a defect_ , he says, and do you know? In this world without you, he not only believes it but acts on I. Turns out that missing one person to love made it impossible for them to love each other,” Tom said. He looked at Mr. Holmes, sitting by himself, and sighed. “Of course, your father has never stopped loving your mother. He's never even tried finding someone new to love.”

 

A lump formed in Sherlock's throat. He wanted to go in and comfort his father but Tom was leading him back down the pathway to the front of the house. 

 

“You're important, Sherlock, even when you lose your way,” Tom said softly.  
  
They walked aimlessly for a while. Sherlock was processing. It was almost as painful to come to terms with that he was important as it had been to sink into the feeling that he wasn't.   
  
“I have one more thing to show you. The future,” Tom said. “It's a special trick I've been allowed just for you, just to make sure that we get this right, because this time this intervention from the angels isn't just about one person. It's two. Two very special people who are on the verge of something tragic when their lives are one meeting away from splendour. Oh, we couldn't bear it if we didn't get to watch it, Sherlock. It's something we've been waiting for.” And with a smile, Tom snapped his fingers again and the scene around them changed to Sherlock's flat.  
  
Sherlock saw himself, sitting at the dining table in the living room. It wasn't covered in the normal mess of papers and artefacts but instead there was a pot of tea, toast, butter, cheese and a bowl of boiled eggs. He was holding a newspaper with one hand and shoving toast into his mouth with the other. And he wasn't alone.  
  
Doctor Watson was sitting there too, working on removing the shell from an egg. “- then I told them that if they didn't hand the hat back, I would kick their teeth in. They gave it back.” Doctor Watson started to laugh raucously. He leaned back in his chair and held his stomach. The crumbs on the front of his shirt cascaded down.  
  
Sherlock saw himself smile to himself and then take on an angry expression. “Do you know how long it took me to lose that hat? I will never be rid of it, John! The things it does to my _hair!_ ”  
  
John laughed harder and put his hand on Sherlock's. “I'm sorry, my darling, how can I make it better? Shall I phone Lestrade and have him find us a gruesome crime for us?”  
  
“Don't call me that!” Sherlock said crossly, but he didn't move his hand. “Maybe you should call Lestrade. I can't stand anymore of this... domesticity. It's so tedious!”  
  
But Sherlock could see that he didn't mean it. He looked... happy.   
  
“We've been waiting so long for this,” Tom said softly. “Now it's coming. It's coming so soon, Sherlock. You just need to get back up and go see the doctor with your leg. No more of your drug habit. There's something better to replace it.”  
  
Sherlock looked at Doctor Watson's face, the warm jumper he was wearing and the lightness in his eyes. His mind rejected the notion that he would love him. Or _could._ He was Sherlock Holmes and he operated alone.  
  
“Sherlock, I have to tell you. John is... he's in trouble the same way you are. He's alone. Very alone. I won't tell you why. You need to find out yourself. But we need you to know that he has a gun and he's not far from where you are. He's... well. You are not the only one who is despairing,” Tom said.  
  
The scene suddenly changed around them and they were watching John from above. He was laying in a bed, pale and sweaty. Asleep but not resting. His head was moving back and forth on the pillow and he was shouting unenunciated words.   
  
“No more of that,” Tom said, as if he couldn't bear it. He snapped his fingers again and they were back in the homeless shelter. Tom put his hand on Sherlock's arm. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. Happiness is just around the corner. Just wait and see.”  
  
And with that, Tom was gone.  
  
The following day Sherlock couldn't be sure if he had been dreaming or not, but a little flame was lit in his chest.   
  
He waited impatiently for his doctor's appointment on Friday. He imagined all sorts of conversations they might have and how the appointment might go. He planned for all contingencies and possibilities.   
  
Once Friday came he flew into Doctor Watson's office.  
  
Doctor Watson was sitting behind his desk. Behind him tinsel was hung decoratively around a painting. It looked like a halo, shining around Doctor Watson's head.  
  
“Mr. Holmes,” John said, standing up to greet him.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said. Nothing else came to him. Now that he was standing in front of John Watson, without crumbs down the front of his shirt, he was quite lost for words.

 


	17. Day Six - Golf Echo Romeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part the sixth of GER's series!

_Sixth Year of Christmas_

It had been a hard year.  The war had taken its toll on John, even in such a short amount of time.  The letters he had sent Sherlock couldn't accurately describe what he was going through and he found himself unable to focus on the letters he received in return, jealous of the life Sherlock was continuing to live without him there.  It was almost monotony, day in and day out, until the day when the monotony stopped. 

 

The day John was shot, just before he was supposed to return home.  He felt the bullet enter him and felt his entire world begin to shut down, collapse in on itself.  As he felt his body hit the ground, something inside of him broke.  The will to fight left him in an exhale and John found himself instead welcoming the soft oblivion that awaited him, finding that so much easier. 

 

Life changed when John found himself in London after that.  He returned to his flat, but it had new occupants.  He did not want to reach out to his family, having been estranged from them before the war.  He could have asked Harry, but he had not heard a word from her before he left, probably dealing with Clara.  Something stopped him from asking for help from anyone.  John had always been stubborn, but the war had made him nettled. If people wanted to help him, they would seek him out.  He did not need any charity. 

 

That was how John Watson found himself staying at a homeless shelter, just before Christmas, sitting alone at a table. 

 

A man sat down next to him with a tangerine and handed one to John. 

 

"Thanks," John mumbled to the man. 

 

"Merry Christmas," the man said, in reply.  "It's always harder this time of year."

 

John nodded, not really wanting to engage in conversation.  The man, however, had other ideas. 

 

"I always liked tangerines," he said.  "Little bit of Christmas just from the smell of them."

 

"Mmm," John added in noncommittally. 

 

"You're not one for talking, are you?" the man asked with a grin. 

 

"Not really," John said, shortly. 

 

"That's alright. I can talk enough for the both of us," he said.  "My name's Clarence."

 

John suppressed a snort. 

 

"I get that a lot," the old man said. "Not a popular name anymore but it's definitely known from It's a Wonderful Life. This is your first holiday here at the shelter, I'm assuming."

 

John turned and stared at the man.  "Is that a question or a statement?"

 

"It's a little of both," Clarence said. "If you want me to have a one sided conversation, it was a statement. If you want to talk with me, then it was a question."

 

A few beats of silence passed as John looked at the man.  "Fine. We can talk. Maybe it will make the time pass faster."

 

Clarence smiled. "I usually find that to be the case."

 

John looked around the room for the first time.  "There's a lot of tinsel in here," he said, noticing the metallic shiny quality that seemed to overpower the room he was in. 

 

"People can't resist decorating at the holidays," Clarence said cheerfully.  "Makes everyone feel a little festive."

 

"I don't feel very festive," John said sullenly.

 

"Why not?"

 

John laughed darkly.  "That can't be a serious question."

 

"Why wouldn't it be a serious question?" Clarence asked nonchalantly. 

 

"Look at me," John said as he gestured at himself and then the room. "I come back from the war and somehow my life has me ending up here!"

 

Clarence nodded slowly. "You came back from the war?"

 

"Yes," John said, his jaw clenched.  "And I lost my flat while I was gone and-"

 

"And you didn't want people to pity you and take you in, so you're here?" Clarence guessed. 

 

"Yes," John said.  "That's more or less all of it."

 

"I see," Clarence said. "It isn't a crime to ask for help, John, especially at the holidays. Everyone is trying to get by and it's easier to make it through if you have someone by your side."

 

"I don't have anyone," John said bitterly, unable to stop himself. 

 

"That's a shame," said Clarence. "But I don't think that's true. Everyone has someone if they're willing to let someone in."

 

"I don't," John repeated, his blood starting to boil. 

 

"Alright," Clarence said gently.  "Easy. I'm just trying to pass along some helpful holiday advice. I'll try not to do it as much."

 

"Good," John mumbled. 

 

"So you said you were in the war?" asked Clarence.

 

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about that either," John replied. 

 

"Seems like there isn't much for us to talk about then, is there?" the man said, still smiling.  "Did something happen to you while you were deployed?"

 

"I was shot," John said, his response almost mechanical. 

 

"Oh, that's too bad," said Clarence. "But you fought through it and here you are!"

 

John shook his head. "I didn't fight. I sort of... gave up."

 

Again, Clarence smiled.  "I don't think you did."

 

"What are you talking about?" John asked, suddenly feeling anxious. "You don't know anything about me and you weren't there when it happened."

 

"So what did you want then?" asked Clarence s. "When you gave up?"

 

"What did I want?" John asked incredulously. "I wanted... I wanted everything to stop. I didn't want to do any of it anymore."

 

"Life?"

 

"Any of it."

 

"I see..." The man had a look of sadness on his face for the first time since he had taken a seat next to John.

 

"Why?" John said, suddenly feeling self conscious.  "Why would you care if I had given up?"

 

"Oh, I'm not thinking of me," Clarence said. "I'm thinking of someone else."

 

"Who?" John asked, a note of desperation in his voice.

 

"Can you think of no one whose world would end if you let yourself leave it?" asked Clarence.  "Think, John. Really think."

 

A fog covered John's brain and he saw a face sluggishly forming there.  

 

"Come on, John. Think!"

 

A face with curly hair, light eyes, and high cheekbones flashed across his mind. 

 

"Sherlock," John breathed and he felt a pain in his chest. 

 

"Yes," Clarence said, his smile returning.  "John! Think of Sherlock!"

 

"I... I forgot about Sherlock..."  The thought made the pain in his chest almost unbearable. "How could I have..."

 

John fell off his chair and to the floor, gripping his chest. 

 

"What's happening to me?" he gasped, looking up at the man for answers. 

 

"You're remembering a reason to fight," Clarence.

 

The room around him started to spin, but the bright tinsel remained steady. The softness of the homeless shelter was replaced by loud voices and loud beeping.  The bright tinsel morphed into metallic machines on either side of John and he stared up into faces of men and women who weren't Clarence. 

 

He was conscious just long enough to recognise a hospital environment before he succumbed to exhaustion.

 

There was a soft being in John's ears which gently aroused him from his unconsciousness. Slowly, his eyes blinked open which triggered a loud exhale from someone nearby.  

 

"John."

 

Trying to turn towards the voice, John suddenly found himself face to face with Sherlock who was now kneeling at his bedside.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"I'm here."

 

"What..."

 

Sherlock swallowed and held John's gaze, unable to look away. "You were shot. They...they didn't know if you would..."

 

John saw Sherlock's face start to fall. 

 

"I almost lost you," Sherlock whispered, his voice no louder than a breeze of wind before he regained his composure enough to speak up. "But you're here now. And on the day of our movie tradition, too. I don't think you'll be able to leave here for some time."

 

John nodded, his throat tight. He was still trying to get his bearings and remember what had happened. Hadn't there been an old man talking to him? Where had he... The details began to slip away as Sherlock turned on the television in the room.

 

"Maybe we can find something to watch," he suggested to John, flipping through the channels at almost lightning speed. 

 

"Stop," John whispered, spotting the end of It's a Wonderful Life. George Bailey was running through the streets, wishing a Merry Christmas to everyone in Bedford Falls, his happiness at being alive pouring out of him. 

 

"But it's almost over," Sherlock protested. 

 

"Don't care," John mumbled as he squeezed Sherlock's hand. "My favorite part."

 

The two stayed hand in hand for the remainder of the movie, silently watching. When the bell on the tree rang at the end for Clarence getting his wings, John began to softly cry and held onto Sherlock even tighter.


	18. Day Six - Anne

_Sherlock Holmes is hereby sentenced to six months (at least 100 hours) of community service for removing a deceased body from Bart’s morgue on November 1st, 2016. He will meet with DI Gregory Lestrade every week to discuss how he can best complete this service._

By the time Christmas came, Sherlock was approximately two months done with his community service, overseen by his older brother’s obnoxious boyfriend, no less. He had experimented with different sanctioned services in an attempt to find something at least tolerably enjoyable, and now he was fairly certain that he had stumbled upon what it was. 

 

The homeless shelter wasn’t his favorite place to spend his time, but… there were worse ways to spend a few hours. Hell, he sort of liked folding blankets and making beds and slipping food to some of the patrons, and he realized that the homeless were excellent allies in his efforts to solve crimes through the streets of London, efforts supported by that very same obnoxious boyfriend. Sherlock was recently graduated from Cambridge, with plenty of time on his hands and absolutely no organized work to speak of and a very large trust fund and a newly kicked drug habit—well, mostly kicked. Which meant that his detective work was probably Mycroft’s doing, an attempt to keep his baby brother out of trouble. Given the circumstances, Sherlock was willing to allow it. 

 

On this particular day (Christmas Eve to be exact), Sherlock was working in the soup kitchen attached to the homeless shelter. He wasn’t required to work during the holidays, but it provided him an excellent excuse to escape his family. They were all gathered in Surrey, listening to Christmas carols and eating sweets and watching bad Christmas films, which sounded like hell to him. Besides, he had a certain treat in his back pocket that he was antsy to get into, something he had bought on a whim the night before. He had held off for a while, but he really wanted it… And it was _Christmas Eve_. He deserved something fun for all his hard work.

 

“I brought tinsel,” a familiar voice said as a familiar body entered the kitchen. John. John may or may not have been one of the reasons Sherlock liked doing his community service at the homeless shelter so much. Sherlock didn’t know why John volunteered at the homeless shelter. Maybe he was just a kind person.

 

“Tinsel. Excellent,” Sherlock replied, trying to hide his excitement. “I didn’t know you were working today.” 

 

“Ah, yeah. Figure why not? I don’t exactly have anywhere else to be.” 

 

“Me neither.” 

 

“A posh thing like you? I would think you had a doting Mum at the very least.” 

 

“Yes. She’s insufferable,” Sherlock replied. John chuckled, and ran a hand through his hair.

 

“I would still think you’d want to be with your family. You know… The people who care about you.” Sherlock stared back at John curiously, an eyebrow raised. John looked uncomfortable from all the attention. “Right. Don’t give me that look, you nut. Let’s get to putting up the decorations.”

 

When Sherlock had been a child, people had called him a nut and a freak and a whole variety of awful things, and it had been awful, but Sherlock didn’t mind when _John_ called him a nut. The word seemed so sweet in John’s voice, like a spoken kiss. Not like he wanted John to kiss him. Of course not. 

 

They strung tinsel all over the shelter and soup kitchen—John threw some at Sherlock and then draped a long strand around his neck affectionately. 

 

“Now you’re all ready to go out to one of those trendy gay clubs,” John teased. 

 

“How could I possibly go without you?” 

 

“So, what _are_ your plans for tonight?” John asked, leaning up against the table and sinking his teeth into an apple he had pinched for a snack.

 

“Oh. Nothing. A night in.” Sherlock casually stole John’s apple and took a large bite before handing it back to his friend. John didn’t complain. In fact, Sherlock could _swear_ that he saw John smile, which made him smile, even though he was a bit anxious talking about his plans. Um. _Get very, very high in his flat alone and spend the day in a haze._ John would disapprove. John would be worried about him. He could imagine John telling him that… _Sherlock, I am very worried about you._ John. His angel. Helping him keep his life, saving him… Sherlock fingered the small bag in his back pocket nervously, and then he slipped it into the nearest trash bin. “Or. I might go to Surrey. Haven’t decided yet.” John’s face fell. 

 

“Surrey?” 

“That’s where my parents live. I believe they’re having Christmas with my grandparents and my uncle and my brother and his boyfriend.” 

 

“Oh. That sounds nice.” Sherlock had thought that this was what John wanted from him, but the other bloke seemed upset. Usually, he would refrain from commenting further—he had learned his lesson about from years of abuse. But this was John, and he really hadn’t meant to disturb him.

 

“Is something wrong? You seem upset.” 

 

“Oh, Christ. No, nothing, Sherlock. Promise,” John replied in a rush. “When you said you had no plans, I was going to ask you to get Christmas dinner with me. But you should definitely go home to your family… That’s much better.” _Oh._  


 

“You should come with me.” 

 

“What?”

 

“John, you should come home with me. My parents won’t mind, and it will be very fun… We can steal sweets up to my room and spend all night watching films on my laptop.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you saved my life,” Sherlock answered simply. “And I like you.” John’s forehead creased with an emotion Sherlock couldn’t place. 

 

“Yes, okay… I would like that,” John finally said softly. “God, I would really like that. Thank you.” Sherlock just nodded. But his face was beaming. Maybe he would enjoy this holiday after all.


End file.
